For Him - a Requiem for Miners Wives

For Him

Right before bed

she made it.

His favourite orange muffin,

moist and warm,

on the bench cooling,

ready for his morning tea tomorrow.

She did this

for him,

every night, every day,

and he never acknowledged,

just grunted a gruff “Morning”

and shucked it in his bag,

out the door and gone.

For forty years.

Then, one day, she did it;

she baked a banana one

for him

and his placid ways.

He walked out the door

as usual, gone.

She was on the stoop,

waiting,

as his hunched coalminer’s body

trudged up the path.

“Alright,” he grunted, passing without looking.

She turned, the groan and sorrow

etched on her furrowed brow.

She stood by his coffin,

his mates surrounded it,

tossed crumbs from muffins

on his casket, and she wept,

not understanding the significance.

Later, at the wake, she asked

and she cried.

For forty years,

George would take his orange muffin

to the coal face

and feed it to the canaries,

the life savers of the miners.

For forty years he never tasted one,

never knew her orange.

Worse still, never knew she had tricked him,

and she cried,

and to the end of her days,

she baked a muffin at night as usual,

took the fresh one in the morning

and spread crumbs on his grave,

so the birds could feed on his kindness still.