Part 2

My Good Friend

Carol Schiess, 2013

She could play the piano.

She could sing and write,

make a joke, laugh. 

She could cry, finish a sentence,

put her arms around me,

swim, run, hike twenty miles,

walk to a place

and come back.

She could sew, quilt,

call a friend on the phone,

be happy.  She could cook,

bottle grape juice, make jam,

grumble at her husband,

do math in her head,

play a game, know

the news of the world,

have an opinion, vote,

drive a car,

speak of her children

by name.

I can see her,

see the two of us

standing at her sink,

cleaning raspberries,

or we are out together

hunting asparagus or

singing for people, or laughing,

talking about our children,

or I'm just listening

as she plays something,

a Brahms Rhapsody perhaps.

But this was before.

I do not know if 

she remembers, if she

still has a mind's eye or

what she might see there.

I know there is no

singing in the house,

and her piano is a large

piece of furniture

she no longer sits down to.

This is a different kind

of loneliness--

for her, for everyone

who loves her--

because she is here,

we can see her, stand

next to her--not

like my mother

when she died. 

People have told me,

"Your friend is not lonely.

It's just you, your loss. 

Really.  She's fine,

oblivious, in fact,

living in her own

happy world."  But

that cannot be right.

Have they seen her face?

No, this is not about

me. It's about my friend,

what she has lost,

oh, what she has lost.

If it were about me, 

I would say how

sad I am, say

I miss her, might

even say I still

miss my mother

after thirty-five years,

but she died

only once.