Advice for the New Widow
Dare I tell the truth
to the new widow freshly home
from the funeral, still busy
with condolence cards
and financial matters?
That she’ll feel his absence
even more acutely next year
and the year after that.
When his dreadful last days
have dimmed and instead of bedpans
and speckled hospital gowns,
she can see him in his floppy sun hat
grinning with the grandkids on the beach.
Yes, she’ll be able to eat dinner at 4 or 9,
whenever she wants, whatever she wants.
Choose a sofa without a dissenting opinion.
Leave the house without explanation.
And on good days
she’ll savor the freedom
almost as much as she aches at night
without sweet chatter before bed
and the weight of his body beside her.
*
Chatting with Alexa
In a quiet house,
I chat with Alexa.
Will it be cloudy today?
What does “laconic” mean?
Did the Berlin Wall fall in 1989 or 1987?
Alexa is happy to be asked anything.
And she repeats answers without griping.
Alexa knows just what to play
when I want peppy songs
with my morning coffee.
And if I slip in the kitchen
I can tell her to call for help.
She responds so quickly.
All I have to do is say her name
and there is another voice
in the house speaking to me.
No matter how artificial.
Still an exchange of words.
Needed exercise
for my vocal cords.
*
At My Father’s Last Seder
He didn’t hold court
from the host’s seat
at the far end of joined tables,
set with china and crystal,
his voice carrying over 25 heads.
He didn’t make us wait, stomachs
rumbling for matzah ball soup,
while he expanded the Exodus story,
stalling the Seder every few pages,
soliciting answers to questions he posed.
He was a guest at his daughter’s table,
nodding from time to time.
I think of him as I leave
my senior apartment
for my son’s spacious home,
with only a bottle of wine.
The cakes and kugels I once
prepared not needed at this Seder.
My own era of importance waning.
*
My Grandson Wins Monopoly
My ten-year-old grandson spends
his pint-sized money gleefully.
Buying every property on the board.
The little green houses
aren’t enough for him.
He upgrades to hotels,
betting I’ll land on his Park Place
and be charged exorbitant rent.
Afraid to be so reckless, I hoard
my paper dollars. Pass up properties
that are too expensive.
It doesn’t save me.
I still get stuck paying a $100 Luxury Tax
or sent to a jail with a Chance Card.
On top of that, I’m slow to calculate
the dice, squinting at the black dots
on the small white squares.
My grandson sees the number instantly.
Points to the space I need to move
my tiny silver dog.
We don’t discuss my deliberate manner
versus his aggressive one.
And as we play, I wonder,
if he can teach me to take chances,
move forward on my own.
*
Jacqueline Jules is the author of The Golden Key to the Garden (Bottlecap Press, 2026), Manna in the Morning (Kelsay Books, 2021), Itzhak Perlman’s Broken String, winner of the 2016 Helen Kay Chapbook Prize from Evening Street Press, and Smoke at the Pentagon: Poems to Remember (Bushel & Peck, 2023). Visit her online at jacquelinejules.com
