I talk to her each evening, in bed, before I fall asleep.
She does not answer me, nor have I seen her
In the seven months since death took her from me.
I do not expect to see her or hear her again--
Not in this life,
And who knows what happens after that?
Each night I wonder if she hears me.
I tell her what the day has brought,
About my plans for the next.
I thank her for marrying me,
Not leaving me;
For beautiful children and grandchildren.
I tell her news of neighbors, friends, and family.
I reason that,
If she can hear me,
She must know these things already.
Still I tell her.
Sometimes I ask her to forgive me
For the times I was unfaithful--
No, I have no secret scarlet letter,
But lesser infidelities can be as bad.
I open my arms
And enfold them about her,
Or about empty air.
Two evenings ago I danced with her wedding dress--
An exercise I shall repeat
For it was one of the best dances of my life.
When I sit at my desk,
I see her framed picture before me.
How often I have picked it up,
Held it close to my heart.
In bed I tell her that I love her
And hope to be with her again someday,
In a happy place,
If all goes as planned, our ashes will lie together
On a Colorado mountainside.
But I yearn for a conscious reunion.
Each night I end with simple words
That have more meaning now
Than ever they did when she was alive:
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