Everywhere and Now
by CJ Rakay

You always told me you could feel them, those that had died,
the ones you so loved, that you felt them
as though they were sitting with you at the kitchen table
over a cup of green tea or a bowl of berries,
each one chatting away, you gladly listening.

They’re gone.
Strange, you said, how you knew that, but somehow
didn’t believe it—couldn’t believe it. How could you, you said,
when you see them in the soft light of every new moon,
in the bright eyes and sweet breath of our children,
even in that shiver you felt for what you thought was no good reason.

They’re not gone, you said.
They’re here. They’re everywhere.
And I thought it was so sweet–so very sweet–that you believed that.
But I never did. Until now, until today, when that lone stream
of morning sun blazed through our bedroom window, and there you were.



 

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