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Thursday, November 3, 2011

SORT OF KNEW

Sometimes I didn’t hear from him for a year.

There’d always be a Christmas card, sometimes

it’d arrive a week late, overseas postmark,

scrawled handwriting, difficult to read a return

address, there was no mistaking who’d sent it.


Nothing came up in my search of obituaries

from his rural county in Northern Ireland.


Last time we spoke on the phone, I found him

in his usual excited manner, explaining his illness,

how it’d spread. He snuck in the word, “terminal”.

Brushing off my grief, he told me not to make

too much of it, It’d been a good life, to be sure.


Lad, I’ve figured it out, it’s only really about the

moments spent with loved ones and friends.

Your call today is proof of how great it’s been.


In the end, I found out from a mutual friend-

Your suspicions regarding Myles’ health are confirmed;

Myles has passed on, bless his soul. His Aunt was kind enough

to send a note highlighting what we already knew about the man.

Cheerful, positive and more concerned about everyone else.

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