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)
