Red at the window, a cardinal’s flare,
her signature on frost-bright morning.
She said messages sometimes fly in,
and I’ve believed it ever since.
She could have been anything,
mind quick as spring water,
yet chose a table with six plates,
and called it the finest work.
She planted color into the yard,
coached tulips to stand a little taller.
October wore her sweaters,
December bowed to her ribbon and pine.
The phone sang to her mother, her sister,
thin wires carrying thick love.
Dreams? She folded them carefully,
made room for ours, and his, and ours again.
On rough days she’d joke of a getaway,
a room key with Mary Jo’s name on it.
We’d behave for an hour, maybe two,
then she’d laugh and cancel the reservation.
She believed in me before I did,
stood in my corner like a choir.
I wish I’d been the man I am now
before the fog came down.
When the mind’s map began to fade,
I sat by her, evening after evening,
shared the spoon, the songs,
shimmying to the music she loved,
she’d listen, sing, and dance, bright til noon.
And always the laughter,
the kind that takes your breath hostage.
I learned that trick in a crib,
kept it ready for the days that needed light.
Head of the home in soft shoes,
architect of ordinary miracles.
If thanks could pay the bill,
I would spend it all and owe more.
Cardinal returns, scarlet as a heartbeat.
I look up and say her name without sound.
It is not enough to say we love her.
She is what we mean when we say love.
This poem, turned into a song:
Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Pizza 