One Name

I slit the envelope

and new checkbooks slide out. 

For the last four years, 

whenever I wrote a check

I saw our names together at the top.

Ed and Gina

But not anymore.

On these new checks,

my name stands alone.

Those first months after Ed's death

contained so many papers—

vehicle titles

electric bills

bank statements—

each with a name—his name—

that needed to be

removed

replaced.

I made phone calls,

handed over death certificates,

heard sympathies

from staff members who have done this often.

A couple, with names once connected,

now severed—

by death,

by choice,

by tragedy.

Each a story.

Now, my story.

I still say 

we, us, ours.

I want to imagine they will always be

our children, 

and this our house, 

the one Ed provided for us,

But I know that the future is just me

and the responsibility is mine

for my children and my home.

I don't like

me, my, mine.

I know they are God’s,

and He is here.

But I miss flesh and blood,

skin and bone,

paper documents

with his name attached to mine.

But I hold the proof in my hands.

A checkbook

with only one name. 

Is a stone in a graveyard

the only place to find our names together?