Joni
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. |
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