We sat, together on the edge of your single bed, in that narrow room.
There, you would die, within the year.
I told you that your little brother was dead: “Uncle Pete died.”
Your green eyes filled with tears – I had seldom seen you cry –
a small sob escaped.
You were remembering, I guess,
those complicated years of disenchantment, and love.
In a moment your face cleared – you smiled,
and laughed.
Gone.
TheWisdomYears.org 