Her Dying Day Poem by Chris Embrick

Each day Molly would sit on the porch
and watch the sunrise, smell her favorite
roses and watch the Summer butterflies.
She never wasted words, especially as her
dying day drew near. She said all I needed
with her gentle smile and tender eyes.
Even dying, she always tried to get me to
laugh, as we talked about our life together
and all the crazy things we'd done.
After her death, I retreated into my lonely
space for a few weeks, cried all the tears I
never let her see.
But today, I climbed the grassy hill to the
plot with the grand view, the one she picked out,
the grave that would always face the morning sunrise.
Today, I brought her favorite roses, just like the
ones that grow by the porch. I tossed the old ones,
already faded and replaced them with a pink bouquet
with just a hint of red.
I sat here on the grass and talked to Molly as if she
could hear every word. Even when she died I could never
let her go.
I talked about work and how much I miss our times together.
I told her about the butterflies I saw this morning
and how sweet the roses smelled.
As I drove home, I knew we'd meet again in another place
and time. I pictured Molly on the porch, sitting in the
rocker beside her favorite rose bush, watching Summer
butterflies dance around the garden flowers.
These days I don't do much crying; Molly taught me to
be strong. She taught me how to live and showed me how
to die. I don't go to the hill as often, only when I'm
a touch melancholy. I stop and buy her roses, sit on the
grass beside her and let my mind wander for an hour or so.
Even when its cloudy I still see the sunrise.
Even before they bloom I still smell the roses.
And in my dreams, I still chase Summer butterflies across
the yard with my Molly, just like we use to do
before her dying day.