Good Friday

I hoped she would be brought from her coma. Extubated.
She wasn't.
I hoped she would rise from her bed. On Easter.
She didn’t.
Sunday would be poetic.
Sunday was banal.

Thousands of prayers by thousands of people.
Millions of words.
Still she died.
The mother of our children.
The partner in our life.

Of those that offer unanswered prayers, I think.
About those that live lives with laughter, I smile.
There is still good.
For empty, cold, sides of beds, I hold space.
With those that mourn, I mourn.