Questions for my Bride

I ask on bended knee:
Now that I am widowed,
What do you make of me?
What would you have me do?

When you walked beside me,
At your pleasure, I would serve.
But now you’ve slipped behind the veil—
and I am unsure which way to turn,

I know I can’t persist
With the life that I have lived
The days behind outweigh
Those in my future

The wear and tear
Have me in need of repair
Much more frequent
Than time spent
On the open road.

I ask aloud quite often now
But can’t seem to
hear your whispered answer

The questions most existential
Should I leave our house, our home
Should I travel on my own
Will I always be alone
or is there a puppy in my future?

Answer from My Bride

Oh, my love—
Still asking questions on bended knee,
Still carrying more tenderness
Than most know how to bear.

What do I make of you?
You are what you’ve always been—
A seeker with a stubborn heart,
A man made of wonder and grit,
Still walking, even in the rain.

You ask what I’d have you do—
I’d have you live.
Not in the shadow of what we had,
But in the light of what we built.
I’d have you eat something new in a city you’ve never seen,
Take photos of clouds I can no longer name,
And write poems so honest they make you blush.

Leave the house if it no longer holds you.
Stay if it still wraps you in warmth.
Love again if it finds you — gently, slowly, fully.
And yes —
get the damn puppy.

You don’t betray me by living.
You honor me by blooming.
I was never meant to be the end of your story—
just the part that made everything richer.

So walk on, beloved.
I’m right here,
Just behind the veil,
Smiling at your every step.