I Could Not Let You Leave

For Lynne

They always want to know why poets write about death. It is so melancholy--so incomplete for a bright spring morning full of promise and hope.

Those of us who are not sixteen know about the circle.

The mystery bites, intrigues, especially as we grow closer to leaving. To pierce the pasteboard mask, to see behind the veil, to know if we will see again with eyes not human--their faces are fresh and unlined-some hide secrets-some still cling to childhood with the passion of resistance fighters.

We are all surprised when I suggest gently that Death is no respecter of persons and that I, the old one in the room, may not be the first to leave.

But this is a lesson I myself must learn.

*************

She sat in the front row; most often quiet, she watched, smiled and when prodded, offered a formed opinion.

Times she lingered as the others left, chattering about their glittering lives and their plans to buy shiny dance dresses and the inconvenience of fending off many admirers.

Sometimes we spent lunch together. Often we talked.

Her stories-sad, sweet, funereal-left me dumb, my tongue for once silent.

And she taught the lesson of what it was like to live with poverty in all things and those not like her.

Years later, I sat on a stool reading an email that told of her death.

Within reach was a note she had taped on my light. A note (it was like her-- both sad and sweet and signed with love) that said she had missed me that day.

I could read them both at the same time.

It was not linear.

That one so young is called back before I-I cannot conceive nor explain. Now all that's left, as Emily says, is "the sweeping up the Heart And putting Love away... We shall not want to use again Until Eternity."

I could not let you leave, dear friend, and not say goodbye. ******************      For Lynne

Acrylic on rock