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,

Loving 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,

Kissed it,

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,

Somehow.

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:

Good night.