On those days when, because you felt attacked,
You just wonít speak, itís like a dress rehearsal
For one of us being dead. (So, a prehearsal?)
Canít speak for you, how youíd react,
But for myself, if you die, I know only:
Iíd be lonely.
After the slow dispersal
Of the acquisitions of the years
From yard sales, impulses, unfinished plans--
After the childrenís and grandchildrenís tears,
(Their own mortality foretold in Granís)
Thereíd be an emptiness.
Iíd need an act of will to even shave--
The dogs donít care how I behave.
All I needís here in cupboards, shelves, on line.
Iíd be just fine...
Apart from growing restlessness.
I guess Iíd restart travels.
Meanwhile Iíve learned how it will be
To live without you, just your memory,
A silent apparition in this room and that,
The ghost of one who used to laugh and chat.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Robin Helweg-Larsen would be pleased to hear them.