by Steve Kline
Our losses sometimes drive us out of our own lives. I had lived with Susan for seven years in a home in a neighborhood. I remained in that home after she died. One night, out on a walk, I realized I had become a stranger in my own neighborhood. That was an unsettling revelation, and I was not prepared for it or the pain that welled up. I went back to my house, pulled out an old photograph of Susan, and wrote this poem during a long sleepless night.