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She let the “little girl’
Fall “head over heals”
A time or two,
But she remained,
In the end,
At home,
Close to her “husband,”
Close to her “Dearest Friend.”
She felt safe,
Secure there.
He only wanted
“His mysterious little girl,”
There wasn’t any fear,
There wasn’t any imprisonment,
And in that she was sure.
She really didn’t
Have to “care.”
But he became
As she would say,
“So dear.”
Later on,
When the cancer
Would take him
For days at a time,
She remained by his side,
Cared for him,
Nursed him through
Those final years.
She was shaken
By his pain,
He was so strong,
His humor was beyond it.
So, she remained.
She even cried for
A couple of days,
After they had
Closed his grave.
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Now,
Alone,
She traced back
Through those years,
They had lived and loved,
And spent so much time
Playing their “safe”
Little games.
Really,
Was there any way of weighing
Just how much
He loved her?
Or,
How much she “loved” him?
Their marriage
Had been a “good one”
By anyone’s standards
Who really would understand.
At fifty-two,
It seemed past due,
For her to finally
Let the “little girl” go.
Her sobbing,
Shaking at the graveside,
Was as much for
The “little girl’s” burial
As it was for him.
He was the one who
Kept “little Emily” alive.
Perhaps,
For anyone who really knew,
It was his most perverted sin.
She had buried him,
In the morning,
In the rain.
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