They say that he was good,

but I don’t know.

I never left this town in all my life.

It was he came back to me.

What he left behind I cannot say.

He could talk.

Oh Lord, could he be sweet.

No sweeter man drew breath,

that I am sure. Young he was,

and quiet, when we met.

Handfasted in the spring of ’82,

Wed by winter, child inside,

Susanna, then the twins,

then he was gone.

And so it was,

twenty year with letters,

only words, words and words

to live on, words to dream on,

and I did, each night

hid safe beneath me in

our second best bed.