Poem by Emily Dickinson

SHE died,--this was the way she died,
And when her breath was done,
Took up her simple wardrobe
And started for the sun.

Her little figure at the gate
The angels must have spied,
Since I could never find her
Upon the mortal side.

by Emily Dickinson

This poem leaves out the details of her death, just like we don't know the details of Katie's death. Our nightmare began with a phone call at 7 on a Wednesday evening, then driving 3 hours to SFO, running through the airport to the gate near the end, flying all night to Boston, then driving to Wellesley. They told me they found her a few minutes after I arrived, and that she was dead.
I didn't know there was anything wrong with her, and then I didn't get there in time to save her. My nightmares have never ended...I still search for her and I never get there in time. I wish I could have a dream more like this poem, that's she's okay, that the angels are with her.