Today,

I look at a friend,

A colleague,

Hopefully resting in peace,

Waiting,

To be taken

To his final resting place.

We are taught

Not to speak ill of the dead.

I have no “ill words” for my friend,

My colleague,

But I have words for death.

Death comes,

And for the most part,

It’s unexpected,

Unwelcomed.

Death is not becoming.

I don’t think anyone looks good

In death.

Undertakers are tasked

With making the dead

Look good –

An impossible undertaking.

Death becomes no one.

I look at my friend,

My colleague.

I think of all the yesterdays we shared,

And how he’ll have no more tomorrows.

Today,

I don’t mourn my friend,

My colleague.

I am…unmistakably… sad –

Maybe because we are the same age.

I don’t celebrate his life –

It’s been cut too short.

I think of all the words we say

To comfort ourselves in death,

But I have no words

To express this … unmistakable … sadness.

Biblical verses

And Shakespearean phrases

Take center stage in my mind,

But they don’t perform.

They know this is the final Act.

I shed a solitary tear for my friend,

For myself,

Offer it to Death,

Not knowing if it means anything,

Not knowing…

For Darryl Freeman

(1960-2018)