Seven Months

Seven months and I was fine at the funeral,

fine at the reception, fine all through January

when people kept checking in.

I said: I'm fine. I really am.

Then the oatmeal.

The packets with the little Quaker man

in the wide-brimmed hat.

You bought them by the box.

I made fun of you for it every time —

the man's expression, the powder that clumped

if you didn't stir fast enough.

I was in the grocery store

and I just stopped.

Cart at an angle in the middle of the aisle.

Stood there for I don't know how long.

Didn't buy it.

Pushed the cart to a different aisle

and stood there too.

I still have your number.

I started dialing it once —

my hand doing it before my head caught up,

the way you reach for something

that isn't on the shelf anymore.

Your contact photo.

The one from three summers back

where you're squinting a little.

The sun doing that.