Or when the little strip just won’t
turn. And the months pass
marked by what arrives
and what does not.
Until sickness and health
are behind you
and death has parted you.
One hundred
thousand
million
times
in every little way and every big way
in every glance and every sigh.
I do.
You know,
I say those words
every day, every minute.
I peek into the room and see
you sitting in the sunshine,
eyes closed, tired from every little thing,
and I whisper it to myself, though no
one else is there
to witness it.
No one else,
still,
I do.
