The Day You Died

We knew.
The time written in the Book of Life for you had come.
You left us, and we sat in stunned silence, that your time had come to pass.
I looked outside as I held your hand.
The sun was still shining.
The earth was still turning.
The laws of nature had not been overturned.
You were growing cold,
and
time still continued.

We slipped into a coma of shock.
Friends came over to help.
I sat in my nightgown, unaware that I was not dressed.
I still did not weep.
I could not weep.
I could not even cry.
Then, like in the Garden, someone suggested I get dressed.
The room was full of people.
I hadn’t even realized because
You were dead.

Someone cooked.
Someone did dishes.
That might have been, but I’m not
sure.
The sun was shining brightly.
It was warm outside.
They went home,
and
we were alone.
I still couldn’t cry,
at least,
not until the early hours of the morning when no one but me was awake.

The sun still rose.
Lives continued.
I heard the sirens of the night as I sat on the deck.
It was too late.
It was the day after you died and the world still turned.