There will come a time
When life comes to an end
But I lost you too soon
My child, my friend

My days are so empty
My tears overflow
Yes, my heart is broken

Talk to me, my precious child
Speak to me in my heart,
Let me hear your kind, sweet voice
Full of love, though we’re apart

Touch my hand, my precious child
Even if just so brief

Today, I’ll speak with an angel
Not just any angel,
But a special one
My child

I will say many things
And know my child hears

Those private places remain the same as if you’ve never left.
Frozen in time, an eternal play place, a silent stage for the bereft.

Artwork on the refrigerator, your shoes still scattered on the floor,

Mary wrote this poem seven months
after her beloved husband, Bill, died
at the age of 79 from Alzheimer Disease

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,

The holiest of all holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart,
The secret anniversaries of the heart.

I woke up next to
Grief today,
his bony arm stretched
round my waist like he owned me.

If Roses grow in Heaven, Lord
Please pick a bunch for me,
Place them in my daughter’s arms
And tell her they’re from me,
Tell her I love and miss her,

I am here among friends, smiling at their humor
And making plans for tomorrow.
But there is another person, lying curled in the corner,
Crying out in unbelievable pain.

I wanted so much more for you, my sweet little baby.

I wanted to change your diapers, not my life.

I wanted to nurse you, not my grief.

I wanted to dress you up, not bury you down.

It has been said that the more deeply we loved,
The more deeply we grieve
My love cannot be measured
In the ways I show my grief

There is no “formula” for grieving
No pattern to which I must adhere