His Smile

His Smile

Your eyes search mine
as if I could give you a reason,
as if I could tell you why.
I can’t.
And so I rub your callused hands,
I cry with you,
weighing you upright,
shoulder to hunched shoulder.

He sleeps across the hall,
your husband,
wrapped in a blanket.
Soon the only roof
under which he will rest
will be one of cold soil,
six feet under.
But he will be safe,
he is wrapped in his blanket.
He will join the earth,
he will hear the call
of God on Judgment Day.

And we will remain above,
blessing his journey
as his essence seeps into the landscape.
We will see him in the setting sun,
in the play of shadows between the hills,
in the glisten of green pine needles on the wind.
And we will smile.
Because his smile will always await us there.

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