My son’s friend said bluntly,
“My Daddy died. He’s up there,”
pointing to the sky.
Her casual soprano buried me
like a rockslide.
Seems he went to sleep Easter Sunday,
but, unlike Jesus, did not rise again,
twenty-six and not breathing Easter Monday.
Fragments in the schoolyard
piece together a patchy picture:
respiratory illness but no obvious
cold or flu or asthma.
And so he was snatched away.
We can all be snatched away,
a salutary lesson for the survivors.
I've lived more than double his years, but
how many have I wrung dry of their juice?
Note to self:
savour each moment.