He wants to be with her
He lost everything when she left
There is such a thing as too much solitude
He sits; it’s easier this way
His old bones creak and grumble with each movement
His thoughts, especially of her, loop over and over again in his fragile mind
He’s sick; a sobering diagnosis
Treatment an option in technical terms only
It’s not an option mentally
He can’t do it; he saw her do it
Box seats to an excruciating ensemble
All for maybe a few more years
Of what?
So we make the most of the time left
Marathon phone conversations that sharply narrow the gap of more than a thousand miles of distance
He’s normal, jovial, talkative
The same old stories; the ones I’ve heard for 30 years
I can tell them myself by now
But he enjoys telling them
They’re classics; at least in our circle
The talks are therapeutic; Relief that he is still him
There will come a day when things will be different
The stories will cease
He won’t be able to tell them
But he’s at peace with that
And I am too
Today he’s good
And so am I
Whipped Owl 