As you noted, it is not fair:
the dead have no memories
(perhaps their greatest blessing),
while we who remain and remember
must deal with the void.
I think of you in earlier years
when you first saw this cold place:
the beloved cat-- or that sad little bird
lying in the yard at the edge of the trees,
and, then as now, I am not selling reassurance,
a hollow gift you would rightly refuse.
Every puzzle has its pieces,
each one falling into its own place,
making the picture complete:
the sky entire above our heads
and the ground firm beneath our feet,
the confirmation of a whole
which lights each day’s journey;
but each loss is forever,
that place in the puzzle empty,
a face or color no longer there,
a blank we struggle to fill
until, at last, on some day,
we reach the magic of memory.
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