Dear Bill

The following poem appears on my Web site and was published in Peninsula Poets in the fall of 2007. I wrote it in January of that year after my husband suffered a second stroke. Since the second stroke wasn’t as severe as the first one, we were still optimistic about his recovery. He’s still confined to a wheelchair, though. The odds of  him walking through the door and taking me in his arms are pretty slim, but I still love him, and I’m content with a frequent one-armed embrace.
DEAR BILL
I believe that one day, you’ll walk through the door,
take me in your arms. We’ll embrace.
What happened a year ago
was a major obstacle flung in our path to wedded bliss. 
What happened yesterday was only a small setback.
I knew that, as I sat by your hospital bed. 
We laughed, talked. 
You dozed from time to time. 
I tried to kiss you.
My lips couldn’t reach yours through the side rail. 
You reached out, stroked my hair, told me not to worry. 
So as I did last year,
I’ll lead my lone existence,
get up in the morning,
make breakfast for one instead of two,
go about my day,
visit you when I can,
go to sleep in my lonely bed,
know that you’ll soon be next to me. 
I believe that some day, you’ll walk through the door,
take me in your arms, hold me. 
I’ll live for that day.
Abbie Johnson Taylor
Author of We Shall Overcome
The following poem appears on my Web site and was published in Peninsula Poets in the fall of 2007. I wrote it in January of that year after my husband suffered a second stroke. Since the second stroke wasn’t as severe as the first one, we were still optimistic about his recovery. He’s still confined to a wheelchair, though. The odds of  him walking through the door and taking me in his arms are pretty slim, but I still love him, and I’m content with a frequent one-armed embrace.
DEAR BILL
I believe that one day, you’ll walk through the door,
take me in your arms. We’ll embrace.
What happened a year ago
was a major obstacle flung in our path to wedded bliss. 
What happened yesterday was only a small setback.
I knew that, as I sat by your hospital bed. 
We laughed, talked. 
You dozed from time to time. 
I tried to kiss you.
My lips couldn’t reach yours through the side rail. 
You reached out, stroked my hair, told me not to worry. 
So as I did last year,
I’ll lead my lone existence,
get up in the morning,
make breakfast for one instead of two,
go about my day,
visit you when I can,
go to sleep in my lonely bed,
know that you’ll soon be next to me. 
I believe that some day, you’ll walk through the door,
take me in your arms, hold me. 
I’ll live for that day.
Abbie Johnson Taylor
Author of We Shall Overcome
The following poem appears on my Web site and was published in Peninsula Poets in the fall of 2007. I wrote it in January of that year after my husband suffered a second stroke. Since the second stroke wasn’t as severe as the first one, we were still optimistic about his recovery. He’s still confined to a wheelchair, though. The odds of  him walking through the door and taking me in his arms are pretty slim, but I still love him, and I’m content with a frequent one-armed embrace.
DEAR BILL
I believe that one day, you’ll walk through the door,
take me in your arms. We’ll embrace.
What happened a year ago
was a major obstacle flung in our path to wedded bliss. 
What happened yesterday was only a small setback.
I knew that, as I sat by your hospital bed. 
We laughed, talked. 
You dozed from time to time. 
I tried to kiss you.
My lips couldn’t reach yours through the side rail. 
You reached out, stroked my hair, told me not to worry. 
So as I did last year,
I’ll lead my lone existence,
get up in the morning,
make breakfast for one instead of two,
go about my day,
visit you when I can,
go to sleep in my lonely bed,
know that you’ll soon be next to me. 
I believe that some day, you’ll walk through the door,
take me in your arms, hold me. 
I’ll live for that day.
Abbie Johnson Taylor
Author of We Shall Overcome
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