To a person I once knew,
I heard the news at your funeral.
I wondered why I even came. What did you do, to earn my sorrow, my pain? Why did I feel the burn of the tears, the pain contracting in my heart? Why did I have to look away when your close friend laid you down? Why was there a catch in my throat when I heard that little old man speak about what you did?
I know you better than that.
I was there, all those years ago, that terrible summer day. I saw that monster touch your heart and twist it against those you should have loved. I saw you working for what you saw as the greater good.
Did she die because of you, or because of him
, or because of me? The loss that hurt the most to me: did it hurt you just as much? Were the words I spoke at her funeral, the blow I threw there... were they brought by pain, or by grief...
But, then again, you always said that the grief I felt was just love...
Did you feel it too, I wonder? I never asked. It remains a pity, though. I wish I had.
I felt the urge to go up and speak the words of truth to that crowd gathered. I wanted to say what really happened, how your light wasn't as bright as it appeared. Yet I stood back, alone with my grief, wondering... wondering...
And as I remain alone, beside your tomb, I feel the tears coming again. Did you care? Did you feel?
Did you love?
I know, walking home that day, a single answer will answer all those questions.
But can I push back my pain, my anger, to allow that answer?
And so I sit alone, with my old cat, looking at her picture...
And even though I see her smile, I wish I could see you beside her.
Just so I'd know you cared.