“It’s been a hundred years.
It’s been five minutes.”
That’s what my sixteen year-old said,
sitting at the table yesterday.
Her sister in New York.
(The baby’s ashes in New York.)
I can, without crying, answer
a well-meaning casual friend
who asks about the baby,
“She died.”
I just cannot
Stop the wishing
And the wanting.
Five minutes.
A hundred years.
Of wanting. And wishing.
And loss.
cynicalchristianlikeyou 