The frame is broken—
the two of them still smiling out from behind the cracked glass,
this photo taken twenty years ago before
my pocket full of stones not flowers for the fresh earth.
I was there when the words stopped, when his room grew quiet
except for the oxygen hum
and then the stillness:
a jagged edge torn through for days.
There were none of the regular goodbyes. Just ten of us
spread across a field—
tenfold less than there would have been
if we hadn’t felt so exposed,
still, nothing will grow here until spring
so this is where I leave him
with some small consolation: they are together.
Only sky marks this place for now wide like mapping an ocean.
I will return next year when grass covers these hills and the raw
with more stones in my pocket
stones for words: I was here.
About the Author
Bonnie Widerman enjoys helping small businesses and nonprofits develop authentic branding and express themselves through carefully crafted content. Her poetry has appeared in The Ear, Ladybug Magazine and Fandangle. Bonnie stays inspired through genealogy research, walks in nature, interior decorating and turtle-spotting.