The Sun Still Rises

 I woke up the next morning, same as always, though the bed was colder and the coffee tasted stronger. The world had not crumbled, the sun had not burned out, and the cows still stood in the field, chewing their cud with that same slow indifference. If anything had changed, it was only in the details—like how one less coffee cup sat on the table, and how I didn’t have to listen to her sigh about how miserable she was before she left for work.

I suppose I should have felt something deeper, something more poetic. Regret, maybe. Rage, if I were a more excitable man. But all I felt was the air in my lungs and the solid ground beneath my shoes. I reckon she thought she was being clever. She always did.

Maybe she thought I wouldn't survive without her.

Well. The thing about that is—men have survived worse.

I burned the first three eggs, sure. But by the fourth, I had it figured. I washed my own shirts, and wouldn’t you know, they came out just fine. And as for talking to people, I found out real quick that a man doesn’t need to say much if he’s got good work to do and an honest way about him.

She left for a man with a flattery problem. A man who told her she was too good for the life she had, too special for dirt roads and homemade bread. That’s fine. That’s real fine.

Because I’ve got land beneath my feet and work in my hands. I’ve got a sun that rises just the same as it always has, warming my face without asking me if I still love it.

And when the days stretch out long, and the evenings come easy, I sit on my balcony with a cup of coffee. And I smile, just a little, because I know something she don’t.

I will survive. And better yet—I will enjoy it.