I think of the children who will never know, intuitively, that a flower is a plant’s way of making love, or what silence sounds like, or that trees breathe out what we breathe in.
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Elizabeth Tibbetts’s book In the Well (Bluestem Press) won the 2002 Bluestem Poetry Award. She lives with her husband in Hope, Maine, where she spends much of the summer in their pond, their old dog Daisy swimming circles around her.
At my former father-in-law’s funeral in November, I walked up to my ex-husband Billy and kissed him. It was our fifth kiss in thirty years: one when we finalized our divorce, one at his mother’s funeral, one at our son’s wedding, one at the birth of our twin grandchildren four months before, and now this kiss, with its hint of grief. I still loved his parents. And I had loved him once.