Today people died.

Someone’s cousin, in his early fifties, died after a long illness brought about by debauchery. He held such promise, they said. The family wants a note from above that says poor diet, drug and alcohol abuse were worth a year of watching him die in hospice, and the few decades of lost longevity.

Today people died.

A once best friend died in Maine.  I read her eulogy; it was posted on a two year old web page.

I will not wait for her to write.  I will write her.

I will write her to say that my heart hurts, that a few decades of living proved not enough to crawl out of the unseen crevasse into which our friendship fell. Occasionally our fingers brushed, but we did not reach for the other, we no longer trusted, unsure if the ascent was to a road divided.

I will not wait for her to write.  I will write her.

I will write her and say that I am sorry, sorry for all the decades missed.

Eugenia Druien Purman, you of purple and daisies in June, guardian of secrets, lover of poetry, gifter of music, and keeper of the flame for Richard of St. Barnabas grave, into your arms I now lay your namesake, too late remembered who tended my secret garden, and upon that earth these teardrops fall.

Adieu, sweet Jeep. For when sweetness pierces the roots of the droughts of March and begs the buds up shoot, I will speak your name and remember.

Reprinted here with the permission of Ben Whitledge, c2010.

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