The lady I stayed with
(long time ago)
had little notes to herself
on her dresser —
reminders to keep going,
to look again for the joy of life,
to hold herself
against the drift of sadness

This I took note of,
though I had no place to put it
and no way to even relate,
various chasms
(at that time)
rendering it impossible
for us to know each other

I might know more now,
be able and willing
to bridge the gap
into which fell
all referents of recognition,
and also the knowledge
which we didn’t mention but probably shared
that I was the same age
her dead son would have been.

©Wendy Mulhern
January 19, 2020