I did not listen enough.
That is what I tell myself when I miss her most.
More time given, spent, listening. A simple thing
and most days such doubts never steal into my thoughts.
Only when I miss her most—
when I strain to remember the sound of her voice,
or struggle to form her image in mind and heart.
Where do they go, those angels once we knew?
Beyond. Beyond this. Somewhere beyond this space
and time which seems to us, in our here and now
the only reality. Beyond even our feeble faith.
I did not tell her enough, “I love you.”
And when I did she could not respond in kind,
lying there in those last days between here and there.
At least she heard those precious words from me,
though late in the hours of life, yet from my heart.
She always knew as I always knew, we loved.
Most times I do not dwell on such things as these.
