A letter arrived in the mail today
from my cousin in New Hampshire.
Her words typewritten with
the curling notes of her aging hand
in the margins.
I’d written to her in February, and she said
she’d rather write me than all the other
pressing things she had to do.
What a compliment,
to be the thing someone chooses
to use to procrastinate.
Her husband passed away in March
and she thought I’d like to read
a tribute written to his life.
I remember him as a goofy guy
the only two times I think I met him,
always ready with a joke.
I read his tribute in tears.
A life well-lived;
84 years distilled down
to sixteen pages.