Never

I never thought that I would be placing roses on your grave.

The Notebook

The Cry
Pages and pages of entries
Detailed documentation
Of visits, proposals,
Queston after question,
Hope, despair, choices
All written in her hand.
A journal, a diary, a quest,
All so objective
As if the writer were observing
Rather than enduring.
Dispassionate observer--
Except for one brief plea
Midway through that first year.
A plea, or a prayer, or maybe
Only a hope:
"I know God can heal me--I know that God heals--with You watching over me." 4/2/97

Religion and Old-time

I always used to believe that growing older and definitely being old would strengthen one's religion. As the end of life grows inevitably nearer, one would seek the reassurance that there is more, right? But my so far rather limited insight into religious beliefs and old age has not sustained that way of thinking. Oh, this is way too deep and depressing for me to be thinking about now. It reminds me of that woman reading the poetry of her lost life to her churchmates, who kept waiting for the epiphany which never came. Cripes, if you're disillusioned with your life, why should the onus be on you to cheer others up. Who ever called religion a victory march?

Everything

She told me once, when she was angry at me,
That it was because I was the one
Who she loved the most, in the whole world.
It didn't sound to me,
at the time,
That she loved me very much, at all.
I'm pretty sure I didn't tell her,
at the time,
That I loved her too. I probably didn't.
And now, after she did everything for me,
I can't tell her that I do, and I did,
at the time.

The Doctor told her

"I'll still be your doctor," he told her,
After he'd pretty much told her
That she may well want to do nothing more.
He complimented her on the success of her struggle
"Up to now."
She'd fought the fight, had triumphed over the meager odds,
For a time.
She'd been a very good patient.

He even bent forward to embrace her,
As she thanked him for his efforts.
Within minutes, he would be walking down the hallway,
Talking about last night's game
With one of the living.

The Next Day

The day after that terrible day,
When even last hopes were all but gone,
The day after was ever harder
When that slimmest shred of hope
Had been blasted forcefully away.
Still later the frantic and despairing plea
To be carried to that place of dread,
That terminal of last frenzied hope
Still seeking the coldest and most remote avenue of help.
But all roads now were closed, all doors were shut
Against the spirit that could only utter, "Why?"

The News Today

I think I'll wear my bedazzled sweater to a gay wedding, then throw on a rumpled trenchcoat and take in a mobster arraignment in Boston. What else is there?