It was four months
since his wife passed,
friend,
deliverer,
sound in a room,
the touch of a hand
in a warm bed.
She was a constant presence
for her absence.
“I am alone,” he said,
apologizing for his self pity,
as if he deserved none,
a man who did no harm,
was generous,
and lived as best he could.
He did not understand death.
Did not understand
the giving and taking of the world.
Perhaps he never saw winter before,
the retreat into cold,
the wonder of life
going to sleep or dying.
What could I tell him?
That our turn will come?
That death is better
than seeing death,
touching a dream,
better than seeing its fading?
Watching love perish,
and hearing the wail of the gentle,
the tears of the open-hearted.
We sat and talked
about things that centered outside,
beyond the window.
But she was there,
listening.
He did not see her,
or sense her presence,
watching him rise and weep,
eat his lonely meals,
struggle with his bad leg,
each grieving for the other.