I have never posted anything on this blog by anyone else. This is the first.

When my father announced he had a girlfriend, we were happy for him. He is out and living again. He spent so long in the heroic effort of keeping my mother as safe as could be, as happy as could be, as well as could be. Who could deny him? For so long he watched her slip away to become less, less, less. Who can judge him?

Yet, for some, for many, it seems too soon. It is not quite six months since my mother’s death.

This is by my daughter, Sef Rachel Tritt, who wishes she knew the woman I did and had that woman as her grandmother. She wrote this upon my father’s announcement.

I still see her face:
eyes clear, staring up,
mouth open,
peaceful,
no fear.
She waited till she was
alone,
a rare moment.
He would not leave her side.
He refused.
He loved her—
too much, perhaps.
Still does.

I still see her face.
When I close my eyes
she is there.
Her eyes, once so blue,
are gray,
wide open but do not see.
Could not see me,
could not see him
crying for the emptiness she left.
Does he see her face
as I see her,
pale and cold?

I still see her face
when I think about death.
She waited.
I told her I loved her.
So did he,
again and again.
I went on my way
expecting to see her in the morning,
alive.
But now when I remember her,
I see her face,
stiff,
like a stone,
when I close my eyes.