He sat beneath the window
where light spilled in like slow honey
on his thinning hands,
each one a map of years,
a prayer folded open.
We didn't talk about dying.
He spoke of the wind
and how it bent the birch trees
without breaking them,
how silence was just another way
of communicating.
I asked about regrets,
and he laughed.
Like a leaf, he turned toward the sunlight,
You waste less time
when you know it's running out.
Tuesdays with Morrie,
except it wasn't Tuesday,
and his name not Morrie.
But each time he grew smaller,
my questions grew larger.
He gave no answers,
only stories
that now linger like steam
in a room still warm with
his last breath.
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