I know that pleases you

After you died, everything changed. 

When I could no longer talk to you 

I told myself things you said years

before. I thought of you as many

different people at once, old and young.

After you died, you could see into

the future and explain the past. Often

I would sit out in my chair on the lawn

and listen to you all afternoon. I asked

for advice, and yours was always good.

Of course it took some time before we 

reached this happiness. I am aware

that you may have gone on to do other

things, that this world may no longer

concern you, but for me this is a way

to remember you. I suppose I don't

need to say that you are well now,

cured of that thing that killed you,

and planning to buy outrageous 

hats and travel more frequently.

You're the only one I listen to 

some days. Your sense of humor has

returned, and often we laugh all night.

As you may have noticed, I have been

adding color to everything, because

I know that pleases you. I hear you

telling me to love the things of this world—

the white pines, the sumac, flowers

in gardens and shells on the shore.

I see them with your eyes and say I do.

[Joyce Sutphen {1949- } 'We Have Come This Far', from After Words]