She closed the door and locked it twice. Finally alone. When she hung the coat in the hallway, a heavy layer of cold still clung to the fabric. The house was dark; she turned on only a few side lamps on her way to the bathroom.

The funeral went well. It was a gray winter day, midweek, yet people came.

She still felt frozen to the marrow. Standing on the edge of the open grave, she felt a constant chill rising from its darkness and from the pile of soil her feet had sunk into. Inside the house, it had not yet let go.

She just wanted to sleep. Dressed as she was, she slid onto her side of the bed, and pulled the thick blanket over. The blurry scenes of the past few days and the murmur of voices soon disappeared.

She woke up at an ungodly hour. It was still dark outside. She had never been an early bird like him. When he persuaded her to quit her job because she was too stressed out about it, what she enjoyed most was not having to set the alarm.
She was thirsty. Maybe a bit hungry.

“The living still need to eat,“ she said aloud to the empty room.

She turned on the kitchen light and put the kettle on. She brought home a bag of funeral food. She couldn’t remember who had taken care of the catering, nor who had packed it for her. She went to the hallway to pick it up. The stubborn cold still lingered around the coat.

The house was in perfect order, as if nothing happened.

“You will see when I die, and you stay alone, then you will appreciate me, but it will be too late,” she said countless times whenever she picked up his laundry or empty cups left around. Equally often she thought: “I wish you were gone for good, so I can finally have some peace.”

She never truly forgave him, yet she never left. When asked why, she would say: the children. Later, when they grew up and moved away, she said she was too old to change anything. She kept repeating it, at forty-five, at seventy. She stayed a lifetime longer. She would have told anyone else it was never too late. She met him too early — there was no empty step between her parents’ house and married life. She never learned to be alone, to see how weak or strong she might have been. Blaming him was easier.

She pulled the plates from the cupboard and placed them on the table. Then she remembered: now she didn’t need to set it for two, but she decided to leave it.

In the bag there were cold cuts and various cheeses wrapped in aluminum foil, bread slices and rolls, a plastic cup filled with pickles, a box of pies and one with cookies, some fruit. Amongst oranges and tangerines, the pomegranate stood out bright red. 

She took a few bites of bread just to neutralize the acidity in her stomach for the medications she needed to take. She was not in the mood to eat more. She poured the tea and took a small knife with a worn wooden handle from the drawer.

“This knife was more loyal to me than you ever were.

Who will sharpen it for me now?”

The thick rind resisted slightly. A snap revealed the inside, even brighter, like crimson tears piled neatly.

“I must eat. At least now I don’t have to listen to your annoying loud chewing anymore.”

She ate seed by seed while she was describing aloud the funeral or what she remembered of it to the empty chair across from her. Who was there, who said what, how those so-called friends of his had complained about the food — which, in fact, was very good. Anyway, the food at funerals always tastes oddly delicious.

She placed six seeds on his empty plate.

“I accepted the darkness long ago. Is it dark where you are now?”

She stood up, leaned on her elbows over the table, and looked at the seeds, so tiny, so lonely on that big plate. Tears fell on them, diluting the juice until it looked like a blood pond on the white porcelain.

She looked at her hands, pale skin covered with spots, wrinkles and bumped veins. When did she become so old, where had the time between her nice, plump hands and these gone? She remembered the ruby ring he got her for the engagement. She never took it off for years, then she lost it while swimming. The sea was too deep there to even try to retrieve it. He promised to get her another, prettier one. That was when she was the only woman in his life. The next ring she chose herself. He just nodded and paid for it.

With her right index finger, crooked by arthritis, she drew a circle with the red juice around the seeds. 

It wasn’t easy to stand up; her back was hurting. She stood there for a while, and after a deep sigh, she went to the living room. The morning program was about to start.

”Will it snow today?”