Memoirous

Curt—what did you see on that last walk? Squirrels, those bushy-tailed rats, in a moment of late fall frenzy. A mama pushing a stroller, your mind wanders to Benji, the little boy you lost to a brain tumor when he was 11 years old. He would have been a boy all grown up now, sitting with you, his hand warming yours. Litter skitters across the bike path, swirls around the base of a tree, sending the nervous squirrels twittering. The last time you were home to visit your kids you went camping. At night around the campfire you told them what you wanted done with your ashes. They weren’t ready to hear it. The sun slips behind the hospital across from the bench where you sit. Your last poem touched upon this: a life well-spent, lived to its fullest before the sun goes down. Some of your ashes will be next to Benji, some by your beloved Dawn, some mixed with the wind, as you sigh a breath of release.

This year I’ve lost two friends Not lost, but misplaced. Not misplaced, just can’t find. Gone yet with me always. This summer I’ve lost two friends. Not misplaced, but gone. Perhaps forever. This year I’ve lost four friends. Two are gone, but here. Two have disappeared, yet I Look for them, everywhere. It makes me wonder: What is gone and what is misplaced? I’ve lost keys, pens, and rings. Or are they just misplaced? I’ve misplaced relationships— Or are they gone? Lost forever. I still remember the ring I lost, And I still look for that one key, As for the pens, they are easily replaced. But, you. You I will forever miss.

Suddenly I am struck by the thought: I am old. Not very old, but older. Just as I am no longer beautiful, though I was never beautiful. Just as I'm no longer thin, not that I was ever that thin. So while at this very moment I am not old and fat, it cannot be denied-- I am not who I used to be. Rest in peace--Dawn Mortimer, an old friend, but not so very old.