The dates we keep, for myriad reasons
So many years ago, this time, your mother, my friend
Gone. Now you.
She's gone, said your brother, as we both
Drew a breath in. In one sense, yes, you're gone.
Left to memory,
Left, for us, to remember, to wonder how
To hold fast to the rendition of you we love,
Each simply hoping
Perhaps tomorrow, our own versions of you
Will finally rest within us, sweetly ensconced
In our souls.
As perhaps wherever you go, we remain
Your version, known only to you. Perhaps that also
Your version, known only to you. Perhaps that also
Gives you comfort.
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