But you think it is, as you wrap yourself
in her bathrobe, swaddled in so much
missing her, a great ball of grief

that cannot, will not, untangle.
And you don’t want it to. You want
her back with a fiery fervor,

the shade the leaves should be this
time of year. But the colors are all
wrong, and her voice lives only

in your head now, but even that
no longer sounds like her—muddled
and mooshy, barely detectable.

You fear every moment when
sadness leaps around a corner
like a playful kitten, little claws

reaching for you. But, dear one,
that’s her. Every tender moment,
every bubble of fear rising

in your chest—she’s there for you.
The mystery is not where our
loved ones go when they go,

but the ways our relationships
with them deepen and flow
like rivers. You are not the you

you think you were, without
her hand on your back or her smile
greeting you at the door.

Once they’re companion spirits
tucked into our pockets, we need only
to reach in a hand to retrieve them,

fingers deep in the void, grasping
the perennial wad of her tissues
you can’t bear to part with.

She’s dead, your mind insists.
And then the eternal knowing
beams through you like sunlight:

No, honey, I’m right here.
I’m not going anywhere.
And there she is,

showing up in the leaves
going crimson and gold
at last, in the autumn

breeze lifting your hair,
sorrow on the move,
cooling your flushed cheeks,

the gentlest nudge,
as hers have always been
and, thankfully, always will be.

•••

(for Rebecca)