My love leaves notes in my lunchbag,
Down among the leftovers,
Saying, “You are loved,” or,
On Fridays, “T.G.I.F., my love!”
At home, she greets death daily in her clients,
Who come, shouldering the cold crab
And unasked questions --- more than clients
In their healing, and in their passing. She
Touches them as you would touch a sleeping child
Who has cried herself to sleep.
My love teaches ways of gentleness, listens
For wounds and dreams, giving back
Soft hands, quiet words. She gives space,
Knowing it will be filled with anguish
That lingers in the house
Like a song’s last notes unplayed.
My love hears these notes and leaves them in my lunchbag
Saying, “Hold me!”, “Heal me!”
And I say, “T.G.I.F., my love.”
Thank God It’s Forever.