Russel
I had a friend who died a while back.
He wasn’t an old friend.
My wife knew his lover,
And that’s how we met.
We only went out to lunch a few times before he died.
He said he was inclined to call me Robert,
Although, he said, he observed that most people called me Bob.
I said I wasn’t particular.
He went to a famous school
But was not, himself, famous.
He told me he had prostate cancer.
I said that I had passed biology
Only because my hand shook as I drew an earthworm transfixed in death,
Giving it a compelling, lifelike quality.
But I had heard that prostate cancer was a slow grower.
Only in his case it wasn’t.
In the hospital, when he lay bleeding out into a clear, plastic bag,
(goddamn you, people, can’t you help him?)
I brought him his last French pastry.
His smile was wide.
I turned to the sink to wet a paper towel for him,
Hiding tears.
He died the next day, and his body was burned.
Cremated.
To cremate. That’s an infinitive. I learned that in Latin 101.
It used to be common.
Funny how it still is.
RJB
| 2.5 |
February 5th, 2008 at 10:50 pm
Your words took me out of myself, and for a bit I stood with you in that hospital room, watching helpless as a friend lay dying. Sometimes the knowledge that all of this will stop for each of us is almost too much to bear. The beauty, the uplifting saving grace, is in the connections we make, like the one that brought you to Russel’s bedside. I think we both need a hug right about now…