Question
I would like to say that on the day she died,
The world stopped living,
As she had;
Or, at least,
That I did.
But life went on as before.
The sun rose, dawn broke, birds sang,
And under my window, people chattered, and laughed, and lived,
As they always have.
I lived, too.
I made phone-calls and conversation and coffee.
I ran errands and arranged furniture and people.
I dressed her in her best clothes and covered her with bright flowers.
I lit incense and sang hymns and accepted condolences.
And, finally,
I wept as if my heart would break as they took her away.
But my heart did not break.
And I still live. And love. And laugh.
As when she was alive.
Does she see this and wonder?
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