The Missing Pearl

Wandering in the garden,

I found the spot

where my pearl went missing.

I sat before a headstone;

anger clouding my thoughts.

Looking at the soil, I expected to see

Some richness from her presence.

The fruits of sacrifice that Christ spoke of in St. John.

Instead, the soil is dry and lifeless.

Kneeling on the ground,

hands folded in prayer,

I attempt to recall her face.

Instead, I see the mahogany of the coffer

with the lid open for viewing.

Her bulbous eyes are coldly shuttered,

revealing nothing of the virus,

which took her life.

Hands folded over her delicate heart.

Mouth stitched shut with thin wire.

Under my fingertips, she is a doll—

stiff to the touch and unresponsive.

Tears from the living

will not recall the dead.

My pearl has been lost to me,

hidden under the cold, dry earth.

Memories are vivid, but will fade with time.

I wake from prayer, dust off my clothes and go home.

I sit in her room, holding her favorite teddy bear.

While I watch the sun set and wait for a sign,

that my Pearl will come home again.