Stephen Crane understood.

A man said to the universe

“Sir, I exist”

“However,” replied the universe

“That fact has not created in me

A sense of obligation.”

- Stephen Crane

I lost my husband a year or so ago

Lost. Such a stupid euphemism.

He’s not lost.

I know exactly where he is – and it is the one place I cannot go

To bring him home.

Gone home. There’s another one.

Careful, gentle phrasing.

But I’m home. He’s not with me.

What other ways is death described?

Terms that aren’t as gentle for sure.

He kicked the bucket.

An old farming trope, that.

Kindof like “don’t cry over spilt milk.”

Or what would doctors say?

He expired. Right. Just like that milk.

And I cry all the same.

The kindest, easiest term is that

He passed away...it is a bit more accurate,

I think.

He passed through this world on his way

to a place I cannot follow.

Yet.

I continue to mourn, quietly.

I don’t think that goes away.

They say you grow through it, around it.

And eventually you rejoin the world

And begin again.

I have. I’m good (mostly).

And I’ve moved on -or at least I moved away.

New life, new places, even new love.

But the deep sadness came with me.

It’s part of me now, healed but still tender.

I know. It takes time.

So I’m getting on with my life

Except when I’m not.

Except when I stare out the window

Or lie awake in bed

Or write futile, angry poetry

At an indifferent universe.