One Balmy Evening

My friend Steve died one balmy evening
as I was resting after teaching. I had
no idea that he was gone. I went right on
like nothing bad had happened. Wish
I'd known sooner, though I'm not sure why.
What difference would it have made? I clearly

remember the first time we met. He sat with
a blanket drawn up to his chin. Side-by-side
we'd bide our time (in the infusion room,
grappling with our fear). I can't get the picture
of his death bag out of my head. So plastic, so
black. I should be stapling handouts now, I've

got a lot of work piled up. His doctors said
there was nothing more they could do. But he
hadn't given in. I can't get his sweet smile out
of my head. Not a hint of guile. His doctors
gave him six months to live, give or take a few.
No one really knew. He owned a store, sold

salvage decor. I'd poked around in there before.
Never could've guessed I'd someday meet
the owner of the place, especially not like this.
We sat together, infusions flowing, twice a week
at least. We laughed and talked a lot, but sometimes
not. Needles pierced our veins until they scarred,

jammed up, collapsed. I saw on Facebook that he'd
died. His wife had done a post. The post revealed
she'd loved him well. But still, to learn on Facebook
that he'd died, that was hard. We'd kept each other
buoyed, shared the ride. But then we went our
separate ways. She said he often fell asleep in

sun, toward the end (basking, warm). In truth, I'd
barely known him. She said they'd made it back
to Yosemite, Bridal Veil Falls, one last time. As I was
teaching, one balmy evening, my friend Steve died,
a blanket drawn (I like to think) up to his chin.
And I went on.

Comments

[Jeff]

Thanks for sharing this Jane. A beautiful poem and tribute.

[mary ann]

One of my all-time faves...