Morgan Ray

I Become a Collector in My Time of Grief

Nights are the worst, rolling over to slip my arm across his back. The chill of empty space—the most frightening place. Restless endless time. I put one of those long pillows on his side but there’s no rise and fall of breath, no scent of Aramis. Was it just last week, we were sitting across from one another reading The Times and drinking coffee in the comfortable silence long-term couples share? Why didn’t I say, I love you, as he left that day instead of handing him a grocery list? I try to concentrate on the irritants he brought to our marriage—the way he shed his linty socks in bed, clipped his toenails on the edge of the toilet, left his half-eaten sandwiches on a plate in the kitchen sink.
 
At his funeral, death became real. Panic tightened in my chest. Someone said, Let the good memories sustain you. I wish I could remember who it was. Wish I’d told them to Fuck off! Memories dissolve like cotton candy in the fog. What can I hold onto?

Worn leather slippers
Electric razor stubble
Scratch pad bucket list

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About the Author

Morgan Ray, a former resident of San Francisco, now lives with her wife in Salt Lake City, Utah. She has written two books of poetry, the most recent a book of postcard poems. Her poetry has been published in The Ekphrastic Review, Autumn Sky Poetry, Unbroken Journal, and Gigantic Sequins, where her work was chosen as the winner of their Summer 2024 12th annual flash fiction contest.

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