Lives Slip Silently By

 Lives slip silently by.

Who knows what’s

Behind that hollow eye,

In dark recesses

Lie past successes.

Gray heads bent

Troubles for a time lent.

We can’t see them now

Under that vacant brow.

A sketchy obituary

Read in the paper

Tells some of the story,

But then it’s late to know.

We can’t reach in.

Sometimes we can’t begin.

No one around to start the story

And we find out too late

The story trapped

Behind a precious one’s fate.

I attended a memorial this morning. The pastor expressed regret that he only found out the deceased liked model trains. The pastor has a collection and would have enjoyed talking about model trains. The conversations never led to model trains. It reminded me of this poem I wrote when I worked in a skilled nursing facility.  How often, though at these memorials, do we wonder at how we may have connected with the ones passed on?

“As Death stalks our hallways again, I wonder at the lives we touch.” I wrote that line when I re-posted this poem.

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