It was four months
\nsince his wife passed,
\nfriend,
\ndeliverer,
\nsound in a room,
\nthe touch of a hand
\nin a warm bed.<\/p>\n
She was a constant presence
\nfor her absence.
\n\u201cI am alone,\u201d he said,
\napologizing for his self pity,
\nas if he deserved none,
\na man who did no harm,
\nwas generous,
\nand lived as best he could.<\/p>\n
He did not understand death.
\nDid not understand
\nthe giving and taking of the world.
\nPerhaps he never saw winter before,
\nthe retreat into cold,
\nthe wonder of life
\ngoing to sleep or dying.<\/p>\n
What could I tell him?
\nThat our turn will come?
\nThat death is better
\nthan seeing death,
\ntouching a dream,
\nbetter than seeing its fading?
\nWatching love perish,
\nand hearing the wail of the gentle,
\nthe tears of the open-hearted.<\/p>\n
We sat and talked
\nabout things that centered outside,
\nbeyond the window.
\nBut she was there,
\nlistening.
\nHe did not see her,
\nor sense her presence,
\nwatching him rise and weep,
\neat his lonely meals,
\nstruggle with his bad leg,
\neach grieving for the other.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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…<\/p>\n