It has been nearly two years: and grief,
not weaker but shiftier now,
sneaks a seat next to me in the pew
where I ignore her for awhile,
sing There is a balm in Gilead
without a tear,
she is tall, sun-kissed shoulders,
I've seen her often lately
and learned to ignore her, mostly.
When we start a new hymn, one I've never seen
she whispers You will never hear him sing this
and I weep for all the ways I miss him.
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