Oh, my love – I wish I had asked to to tell me more stories –
your youthful indiscretions,
times you laughed until you cried,
times you cried until you laughed,
those seemingly small events that ultimately shaped you into the beautiful woman I married.
Don’t get me wrong – we shared so much,
but there was only so much sharing we could do
in the criminally short four years we had together.
Between the day to day of work and school and laundry
and simply trying to exist together in this exhausting world –
I realize now there are so many stories I missed out on.
You had a way of telling a story –
your mischievous grin,
a sparkle in your eye.
The cadence of your words and your posture
would betray your excitement or enthusiasm.
Occasionally it was a story with a softer energy,
perhaps difficult –
but I cherished your vulnerability.
I know I can hear about some of your stories from our friends,
and I hope to hear stories of you for years to come,
but their words are not your words.
Your voice, your perspective, your flair –
they are now no more than echoes in the hearts of those who knew you.
The library of you is gone.
I can breathe in your perfume
and write with the markers that you used for your planners
and wear your comfortable sweatshirts –
but I can never ask you to tell me a story again.
Each time somebody dies, a library burns.