’Each time you happen to me ...’
Mary died a few seconds ago, or was it a few hours, weeks maybe? Our new house on the side of the Hill in Dalton was to be our sanctuary, only now the enemy found us.
Poe said it well -- "we loved with a love that was more than love." Living each day was a great comfort, as we meshed and moved as one. What joy to pause in the day without thinking and yet to think each time you happen to me all over again as at the beginning.
And then later to walk into all those white roo,s, and then the last room, and each time she would happen to me all over again. So now I go up to St. Joe’s and sit with her for long, sad moments, and, dear Mary, each time you happen to me all over again.
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