Rich died.

So quietly, so accepting.
So full of grace.
He found it harder and harder to swallow
and so he stopped—swallowing. Then took
a quiet week or so to pass—pass is the word—seamlessly
over.
I thought I knew him, but his memorial brought out parts
I didn’t know. I sat as I often do at funerals, regretting
not knowing better. Not having visited one last time.
Why did we rush off from that last porch stay? Off to
do what trivia?

When I thought I was dying, how unimportant
so much seemed.  I thought of the people
who would  grieve me and I sorrowed for
their sorrow.
Rich wouldn’t have wanted people to make a fuss.
But a little fuss, surely, Rich? You can
swallow that?

A gentle grief for a gentle death,
remembering you as your sons remembered you,
with wry humor and misty love, a grief
settling the soft earth over you as tenderly
as a heavy dew covers
an April garden.

That’s not too
much fuss,
is it, Rich?