Goodbye, goodnight. The next time we meet you'll be cold and nestled tightly in a box even smaller than the room that's confined you for the last two years. 93 years of life- over in a poof. A birth and a death all in what seems like a day. I read your obituary today and learned things that I never knew about you, like how you used to shine Calvin Coolidge's shoes. I think that I never knew you in all these 21 and 3/4 years. It's strange. The last thing you said to me was, "me too." I've taken that to mean "I love you, too" since the last thing I said to you was, "I love you, pop." Atleast I got that right. Shouldn't I feel guilty for not feeling so sad? You were 93. I can only hope to live as long and fully as you. I'll read for you tomorrow, I'll carry the body that you've left. I'm so sad that death feels mundane. I'll see you tomorrow and then it will be real. No more Thanksgivings or Christmas afternoon naps. No more drives to the nursing home to hear you talk about how big my thighs are. Goodnight, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
9|27|09
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