Poet’s Corner

 Your Story




You have entrusted me with your story,

but I do not yet know how to tell it.

The hero’s and villain are clear

even the plot is readily defined;

yet the magnitude of your experience

has left me stupefied.


How can I do justice to what you have said?

How can I possible testify to your wounded soul and body?

How can I make clear to others what your friendship meant?


You were middle age,

a woman in her 40’s –

neither young nor old –

a mother with grown children,

gathered with her family,

to grieve a loss.


How could such a thing happen,

at the hand of a man,

who was supposed to be your friend,

a man who proclaimed to love your God?


You speak of the fear,

the terror,

the sleepless nights,

the search for comfort –

it is all too familiar –

but this is not my story,

it is yours.


I must step back

and only hear your words,

I cannot interject the familiarity

of my own defilement,

into your tragedy;

but oh my,

I feel your pain,

and so wish neither of us

had ever known

this anguish.


You do not want to focus on the attack,

the degradation,


and agony

are only mentioned in passing,

instead you want me to know

how she ministered compassion,


and love

unto you.


The nights were the worst,

you state matter-of -factly;

I cannot help but agree with you,

I too know,

the nights are the worst.


There was an aching,

which would not subside

you say;

but you would call her,

it was the middle of the night,

the households of girls were fast asleep,

you would know she had had a long day,

and that morning would come early for her,

but you would call her,

and she would answer.



she would listen

as you spoke,

and shed more tears;

but she would also pray for you,

you utter ever so gently.


What had brought you together

and created a bond that would

last for decades,

you both go back to,


regardless of the miles between you,

you would clutch the telephone

and seek comfort

the only way you could.


The sun would come up

the girls would begin to stir,

coffee needed to be made,

breakfast and lunches prepared,

you would both say good-by,

grateful for the friend

on the other end

who always answered the phone.


It helped,

you say,

knowing you could call her,

that she would answer,

we got through it together,

you gingerly proclaim,

and then you grow silent.


I say that

she never told me,

my heart is crushed for you,

you are not surprised,

you tell me

that the two of you

guarded each other’s secrets

and shared each other’s sorrows,

but a small smile crosses your face,

she was my friend,

you tell me.


She was your friend,

and you were also her friend;

I marvel at the strength,

and courage,

which you both shared.


The conversation slowly meanders away

from this most tragic of moments,

and returns to the celebration of your friendship,

which I am left thinking about

long after we part company.


I am consumed by a deluge of emotions,

my mind is racing with your words;

but I settle my thoughts and feelings

on this friendship,

that sustained you both,

through so very much,

it was a gift

and it was cherished.


The thought gives me comfort,

though only for a moment;

as I think about the grief you bear,

at the loss of your lifelong friend.


But you corrected me,

you know that one day

you will be reunited,

in a celebration,

where pain will forever be vanquished;

and you believe she is already

saving your place at the banquet table.



you are comforted by your memories,

after all

in this solitary life,

what more can one ask for

than a friend to love

who loves you in return?


~ Cristina Jill Mosqueda ~

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