Dear Beverly

How are you today?

            Hi!   You remembered me.

Always.

No tune today, wrote you something instead.

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He called you Sam. 

How odd a nickname for such a pretty girl.

“Hey Sam, go out and play.”

“Sam, clean that room.”

“Please,” he didn’t have to say.

Reluctant for the chore, but you adored the man.

So off you’d go for the one who called you Sam.

“Sam, such a lovely smile you have today.”

It would grow brighter with his voice.

“I love you daddy.”

“I love you, Sam.”

That’s all he had to say.

And then the cancer came.

Gone and you just a child of twelve.

It could never be the same.

No one to call you Sam.

No sound of “Sam” to bring a smile.

No “Sam, clean that room” today … or any other day.

One day there.  One day gone.

Lay bare the heart ... and cry you did.

Such a heavy load to bear.

No one to keep the boys at bay.

No one to teach you this or that.

No one to say: “I love you, Sam.”

“I love you, Sam.”

The loss, it marked you well.

A wound not seen, but there, a heart not whole.

A week?  A month?  A year? 

Could he have tarried just awhile?

Only those who took the time,

Who stopped and sought to listen.

They too could hear the whisper in your heart.

The need.  The need.  The need.

The need to be just Sam.

And hear without condition,

“I love you, Sam.”

“I love you, Sam.”

He called you Sam. 

How odd a nickname for such a lovely woman.