I Would Like to Tell You

I would like to tell you

how it happened,

what your death was like.

We would talk about everything.

I’m sitting on the couch, you in the chair,

sipping our second coffee from familiar cups.

We sigh in unison at the saleswoman Herta

from the commercial.

You prefer to switch to cartoons.

It’s a warm July,

but you say you feel a draft.

I hesitate, then close the balcony door.

Meanwhile, you tend carefully

to the vegetables for the soup.

Your elegant fingers move slowly,

the carrot is peeled with care,

the parsley already fragrant.

Driving has become rare.

From the car,

you admire the balcony flowers.

Getting up is difficult –

how convenient,

your gaze lingers, delaying your departure.

This year they’ve bloomed beautifully,

different from last,

I step out to touch them.

The kitchen clock

stopped the same day you did.

We’ve yet to find a way to start it again.

I bring your plaid pajamas,

straighten the bed.

I say

I’ll definitely come in the morning,

I ask

when the football match is on.

I wish

our gaze would meet.

But our brown eyes

and a smile tugging sideways

– our mouths curved at the same corner –

suspect nothing.

They reassure us that everything will be fine.

But then, it isn't.

(Translated from the Slovenian by Martha Kosir)