When You Leave

This month, we will celebrate the 84th birthday of my grandfather, who is one of my dearest friends.  My gift to him will be new suspenders, so this Norman Rockwell picture is a perfect illustration for my poem, in more ways than one.   


I came to you yesterday,
into your bedroom where you lay.
It was early morning-
your favorite time of day.
You are dying. Slowly, yes.
But still.
The doctors run tests.
And find nothing wrong.
Is there no word for this?
This ending of days?
This withering phase?
You talk to me.
Oh thank the Lord.
Your words still flow so free.
When the cord is snapped,
and you wake in eternity
there will be talk,
I bet.
Just not for you and me.
This is what I will miss.
I was born to be your friend.
And there are words to speak
before the end,
when you leave
and I stumble on.
But Oh-
There will be lots to say
On that glorious day
when I come. 

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