It doesn’t seem that long ago 
alone, in a quiet house—
you on-call at the hospital,
the children out, silence welcome.

As I write this, I am alone again,
a widow now with Mozart for company 
before silence closes in.
But I wear no weeds.

I think of your touch, the sweetness of it— 
how it moved me at twenty-one and still could. 
Your arm around my shoulder, holding hands,

lying next to each other these last months, 
legs entwined as best we could, your arm 
across my belly.

Calm, peaceful, melting as I had all these 
sixty-six years. How greedy can you get?
I ask myself.