I want to tell you how the latest
writer’s weekend went, and get
snarky about the people 
who annoy us. 

I want to hear you complain
about how they misspelled your name
on your gravestone, leaving out
the ‘e’ on your Anne

which you insisted on as much
as a young redhead from Green Gables.
I want to meet you for dinner
at our favorite Mexican or Middle Eastern

restaurant, hear your stories about work, 
cousins, your long ago Scottie, travel
plans, and memories of Paris and Assisi.
I just want to hear you laugh again,

make plans to hear our favorite
Irish band in Dayton, talk about what
we’re reading. Mostly, I just want you 
not to be dead.