Her eyes constantly concealed
the sparkle of an internal smile.
Sneaking out of the corners of her mouth
came a torrent of words,
spoken in different ways, but always the same:
youthful joy, zest, wonder.
Those eyes should have opened
and beheld the radiance of many more suns.
Her fingers should have enveloped
a pen and described the scene,
should have penned her way through
the years bringing her to adulthood.
But the ink ran out, and the end was abrupt.
Should have. Could have.
These words repeat in endless streams.
Other eyes are now veiled
in torrents of tears, mouths forming questions
that cannot be answered;
not in this life.
Peace stretches out hard and sharp –
painful to grab hold of, yet
none can let go.
Comfort is a gift that none can receive,
save with another gift of understanding.
Solace comes in surprising shapes:
her life, our lives, are not our own
to live, to write, to pass on.
Body and soul, living and dying,
we are penned by his will.
This is our comfort in life,
and in death.