small corner

I sense the weirdness of time passing

and see how small
my place in the world is.
But this does not make me
feel unimportant.

I am vital to my small corner.

It could not be what it is
without me.

And that corner is plenty.

We would all like things to be simple
but that is not really
what happens here.

At times I would like to write
pages and pages of my sorrow
but I am not sure what else,
what different, I could say.

The grief is still here.
It is unaffected by my efforts.
Its depth varies from day to day,
but it does not leave.

I don’t know what other way to say it.

The doctor speaks to me slowly
so as not to alarm me
the way she would speak
to a scared animal.
I wish I didn’t appear
to require such gentleness.

But I will take what kindness I am given.

I arrive home to a cool house
amidst the early summer heat,
a happy husband marinating the chicken,
cats purring in their sleep,
and flowers in bloom in the front yard.

Who says this isn’t magic.

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