Rarer than.

Then she died.
I was in the distance
remembering her touch.
The kids gone off in other worlds.
Though she had wished as much.
Sick she was, for so, so long.
Yet we couldn't say what for.
Symptoms of a life less lived,
and the constant weight it bore.

From time to time I'd listen.
Other times I'd speak.
A voice in pale transition.
Hearts grew faint and weak.
There's no poetry about her life,
her unoffending style.
Just a passing thought, I think.
Something rarer than her smile.