I got a call this week. A newspaper reporter, from there, wants to talk to me, about us, our life, your death. I think I may accept. I'm thinking about it. I don't want to reopen the painful memories, yet I can't help but wonder if it will help others. I'm hoping a couple of people will be investigated thoroughly, and maybe they will get their just desserts. I try to live the way you told me I should. Joy, love, and all the things we had would always fill my heart. I know you never wanted to leave, but you had to. There was no hope, nor help from those who could have tried to save you.
Lord, I still dislike their arrogance and their sickness. They fed off the misfortune of others for so long, for a few pieces of silver. Fat and greedy is what they are, fat and greedy they always have been.
I found the note you left for me, and the last gift you saved for me to stumble across. I cried, with love and gratitude, and missed you so much more. To think that four years have passed, and yet you still surprise me, your presence is real.
The trees are tall, and the flowers grow where you planted them, so I sit and reflect on what our lives were. What unabashed joy you had when you were with me! How my heart aches to feel this loss.
So I wait for a sign. I find no pleasure in the misfortune of others, but in reality, there has not been an apology, not a letter asking for forgivness, no admission of theft and betrayal.
Ask them, there were so many of them, why didn't one of them step up to the plate?
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