The grass is growing and the rivers are flowing, but of what possible importance can that be since I do not have you, my beloved Sarah? I truly endeavor to fill my days with meaningful pursuits. The routine activities, of course, are chores and obligations that must be performed. But no one dare convince me that I should find purpose or meaning therein.
Accordingly, do not declare, my soul, that taking up a worthy cause shall bury my churning thoughts and cause me to dedicate myself to the welfare of others (whose suffering is arguably greater than my own). Please, do not patronize me, my ever-niggling inner voice, with high-sounding but hollow and worthless platitudes. I have no difficulty sorting out the whys and wherefores in my mind, however troubled it might currently be.
It is the heart, ripped bleeding from my chest, that cannot fathom your having been torn away from me so prematurely. Whether sooner or whether later, never could there be a right time to say goodbye.
That is the bitter and ironic tragedy: I was heading my way over to you to say I was sorry and to ask - to plead - if couldn't we start anew. Certainly, by virtue of your kindly nature, you would not have hesitated to say, "Yes, my love, all is forgiven." If certain of nothing else in this miserable life that I have begrudgingly claimed as my own, I could be absolutely sure of that, your seeing the best in me.
It is too late. I was wrong, not about your sweet and forgiving nature, but that you would gently reassure me all would be right again in this, our little world. Now it is I who speak, downward toward a silent, cold and grave you. Please accept my tears and these yellow roses ... I know how you always sighed with such ineffable joy every time I brought you your favorites.
I, your devoted Frederick, promise to return and place more of both upon this, your eternal bed, until such time as I should join you, my beloved ....
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