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Poem	I'll tell you something: every day people are dying. And that's just the beginning. Every day, in funeral homes, new widows are born, new orphans. They sit with their hands folded, trying to decide about this new life. Then they're in the cemetery, some of them for the first time. They're frightened of crying, sometimes of not crying. Someone leans over, tells them what to do next, which might mean saying a few words, sometimes throwing dirt in the open grave. And after that, everyone goes back to the house, which is suddenly full of visitors. The widow sits on the couch, very stately, so people line up to approach her, sometimes take her hand, sometimes embrace her. She finds something to say to everbody, thanks them, thanks them for coming. In her heart, she wants them to go away. She wants to be back in the cemetery, back in the sickroom, the hospital. She knows it isn't possible. But it's her only hope, the wish to move backward. And just a little, not so far as the marriage, the first kiss.
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