Because we have been married for nearly forty years,
There’s a language we both speak, often thinking
The same thought at the same time, or finishing
The other’s sentence. But, lately, when we speak
Of our grief, sometimes the very same words
Mean something different to each of us.
Or we find ourselves searching for words
That do not exist, or are simply inadequate
At naming those moments of need so great
We can barely breathe. Still, we have begun
To speak of what, despite those differences,
Is shocking but common to us both—how
The naked openness of our feelings in grief
Has returned us to an intimacy like the one
We felt with our newborns. There’s a raw tenderness
Between us now in the words we speak
At the end of our day, as if we were both writing
To our dead son, even as we allow ourselves
To be sealed in sleep, like an envelope to be
Placed in the mailbox, flag up, an envelope
With two different love letters inside.