Every Good Thing

She called to say thank you.
Her voice broke and faltered
The way clothes catch on a wire.
The way words scatter in wind.

I listened silently
Not knowing what to say
Or whether to answer at all.

Her son was dead.
She called to tell me
She appreciated all I had done for him.

For “Jimmy.”

But I could not think of a single
Thing
I had ever done for him
Or said to him
That had weight and substance.

Jimmy had been terribly ill for years.

His body seemingly melted into the sheets.

Linda and I spoke often
During that ordeal.
But last year she stopped calling.

I have no memory, or account
Of any substantial provision I made for them.
I don’t tally those things.

Linda continued saying
I had been the voice of comfort
That the aid I provided was meaningful
To both mother and son.

 

Her voice rose and fell.

Staccato.

I could taste her grief.

Unsure how to respond

I simply listened
Until her voice stumbled and hushed.

I heard my voice speaking
As from beyond
Apart from any wisdom
From which I was origin.

I told her every good thing
Comes from God
And from Him only.

She said God would reward me

For all I had done.

That is precisely what I fear.