I Want a roll Call

of the absent
who were briefly here.
I want a black stone wall
etched with their names.
At least let me write them here
so you may read them
or hear me or another read them.
Here are the souls,
roughly 100 years each,
who slipped away in my care
without fanfare or family,
or pardon me, family enough
to care enough.

Mrs. Acosta who tweaked my nose
and taught me my first Spanish words.
Mrs. Lankford, who stopped in the middle
of a word salad to call me by name.
Mrs. Esquivel, who called me an angel
until the pain got too bad.
Mrs. Regalado, who sang "Sweet Mary"
and clung to me like a child.
Mrs. Martin, who called 911 and asked them,
"Did you know I was all alone here?"
then handed the phone to me.

Something resonated in my bones
all the way through the cosmos.

The death of a 20 year marriage
is indeed a death.
Trying to find words to tell you
I awake to a loneliness
even a full day with purpose
does not shake
and to a grief
even this transient
but transcendental love
cannot quell.

I am alone here.