Papa Brewer,
You taught me joy
with deep belly laughs,

to never greet anyone as a stranger,
that the green fuzz growing
on the cheese

did nothing
to undermine
its value,

that sunflowers in the garden
were as needful as
green beans, corn, and tomatoes,

that our day of birth
is meant to be celebrated,
and how to have peace

when you know you are dying.

I knew you were dying.
I wasn’t that young,
but I was so angry, Papa.

You saw that,
reached out your all
encompassing hands,

spoke to me with your
rumbly voice,
but I refused to hear,

turning away from
the opportunity for a
last goodbye.

You did not react–
not with anger or pity.
The act of love

I could not accept
in that moment.
I can’t remember

what you said,
but I imagine
that I listened,

I dream that I hugged
you goodbye,
that I wrote your

last words
and kept them
in the Bible

you gave me when
I was ten,
but that is a wish.

Reality is,
I was nineteen,
so afraid to lose

someone who knew me
and loved me anyway
that I forgot to show you–

I loved you too.