Through a Glass, Darkly

A friend of mine died last night. She was the last person on earth I'd ever imagine dying suddenly at about 30 years old, leaving a husband and two small children. I wrote this poem as I thought all day of her husband and how bereft he must be.

Monica
 

What is this shock of blinding dark?

She is here, then she’s gone.

Yesterday she washed dishes

Changed diapers, folded towels.

Today she has left her skin and bones

And sings with angels.

For all that, it is wrong

This thing called death.

She lives there still, but

The ripping of her from her body

Is as wrong as her ripping away

From me.

No! I say. No! It can’t be.

But it is.

Death is the utter wrong.

If the next earth be better

Than this one, we will make up

For all these lonely years

With eternity, love.

Wait for me.

Dec. 2, 2012