You want to say,
She was old, she had a good life.
You want to say,
She was treated well.
You want to believe
that death can be tender,
a blessing, a dark and beautiful flower,
and maybe you do say these things,
and all the while
your heart sags, wails,
curls like a cat into itself,
longs to be held
in some great, warm arms
even as you hold out
your own unsteady arms
to hold what can never
be held.