The Price of Joy
When you are gone
there will still be—
A little dog
yapping in the window
when I pull in the drive
meals cooked on the stove
laundry washed and folded
floors swept of debris
lawns mowed and trimmed
trash taken out to the curb
The bed will still get made
sheets will be changed
pillows will be straightened
messes will be cleaned
What will be gone
is the joy
carried
in every chore
Half or more
of the joy
in each prepared meal
will be lost
to the inevitability of time
There will still be
a measured rendering
of joy in family—
but it will be diminished
by a shadow
no longer cast
Days will come
days will go
in an endless procession—
Like soldiers
marching
to long-forgotten orders
Sleep will not bring
the same measure
of peace and rest
Sunny days
and rainy ones
will not bring
the same comfort
Waking
will not carry
the same anticipation
Work will still be work
but missing the usual sharing
Days
will continue
beginning
progressing
and ending
with less joy
© Ron Simpson Jr.
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