GOD’S GIFT TO ME

My dearest Mary Anne,

I’m no more reconciled

than I was three months ago.

You’re everywhere I look—

from raincoats hangared

in a closet to framed photographs

to car keys for a car

you never drove.

I sleep

now on your side of the bed.

It helps, but still I wake

to find few public men

or women worthy of respect,

no shortage of military deaths

bartered for affluence, no dearth

of voters who believe that pistols

holstered at the hip define

democracy.

To say that other

men have lost their wives

is no relief.

Devastation

stays particular and merciless

if shared or not.

Longevity

offers nothing but more

of the same or worse…

I miss

your face, your voice, your calm

defiance in your final months,

your last six words that will be

mine alone forever.

Darling,

you were my life as surely

as you are my life today

and will be always.

We’re close

as ever now but differently.

“Why do we have to die?”

you asked.

I had no answer.

My answer now is rage

and tears that sentence death

to death each day I wake

without but always with you.

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