“I’m sorry,” the doctor said, walking away from Mora’s bed.
“I’m sorry,” our kids intoned as they sorrowfully turned to leave us alone.
“I’m sorry,” the nurse clichéd, as she drew the curtains, then scurried away.
“I’m sorry,” I croaked to the somnolent form, who had married me long ago on a bright Summer’s morn.

Then her hand rose up, though her eyes were closed, and gently stroked my cheek.
“I’m sorry, too,” she whispered, “but wasn’t it grand?” I kissed her palm and held her hand.
Then I was alone, but sorry no more – remembering all that had come before.