Stale

We ask Helen why she always sits in the same place
by the cookie jar
waiting for tea to cool
listening to the buzz of a broken radio.
Sometimes I want to hear her say
that she's dying her husband's death.
She stares out the window instead
because the tears don't come anymore.

He died at the office
a small dribble of blood
crawling down his face.
Ma always told me
it was from snorting illegal substances.
I nodded when she gave me the same answer
every time
unknowing that I had found the newspaper
with a homicide headliner
years ago.

They wouldn't let Helen into the funeral
so she baked cookies
and pretended
he'd be home soon.
Back then the curtains were closed
smoke-stained and
pale
covering up streetlamp eyes.

We went to visit in December
expecting to see the same
we always did.
Her eyes were caked in dust
facing the same direction
but
the cookie jar was empty.

I closed the curtains
and told Ma to stop paying the heating bill
just in case.