The last time I saw you we were separated by glass. I could peek into your tiny room, see the well-made bed, the plastic pill cutter, the beaten-up Bible, the World War II books, the stacks of crosswords. I tried to kiss you through the window, find a way to make you smile as you waved a frail hand, tell you it’s going to be OK: The world just needs a little time to stand still. The last time I heard you we were separated by walls. They pressed the phone to your ear so you could catch my voice, desperately trying to soothe not scare. But all I could discern was your breath, heavy and hardened, and I pictured you trying to make sense of the goggles, the pumping, your plastic tent. The last time I felt you we were separated by rules. You going into the cold ground alone in a silver box, me perched on a hilltop, angry and aching. Until I closed my eyes and thought what would you say: It’s OK, the world just needs a little time to stand still.
Susan Miller is an editor/reporter for USA TODAY newspaper who enjoys creative writing as a hobby. Her poetry has appeared in several publications, including Gemini Magazine, Common Ground Review, Months to Years, Under the Bridges of America, Sandy Paws and the Arlington Anthology. She had a short story published in Beach Life.