|Image from here|
You come to the place beside her, where you used to lie. You see the depression his body made when he got up this morning, the smile he left on her face. You see the bedside table, and that the picture of you and her smiling, the sea breeze blowing her weave in your face, is no longer there. She’s taken the abstract painting you loved and had bought for a small fortune off the living room wall. You wonder what she did with it. You haven’t seen her ring, and the pale patch of skin on her finger has started to blend in with the rest of her hand. You ask yourself why she took it off so soon.
You know she can now turn on the big generator on her own; she did it two nights ago. You should be happy. You used to grumble each time she asked you to go turn it on when you were here. She moans and stretches, his smile still on her face, and you notice she’s wearing the last gift you’d given her: the black negligee. You know that even as the satin caresses her skin it is not you she’s thinking of. She opens her eyes and bounces out of bed, humming that tune, and you know she’s happy.
You tell yourself you’re happy that she’s happy. You're happy that, five years after you passed, she can hum "I’m Alive" again. Happy that she got rid of that painting she’d always hated. That she can smile that way again. That now she can turn on the big generator. That she and the world moved on. Without you.