In that final call,
Something in his voice—
    a shadow,
  fractured, trembling,
something wrong beneath the words,
the weight of silence thickening.
I should have stitched some comfort,
threaded solace through the line.

His despair, a dark seep,
unwelcome guest in my hours,
a stain I carried,
though I turned from it.

And then, days after—
the news fell,
a stone into still water,
rings of should have,
rippled could have,
whispered would have.

When he had played—
the guitar was a vessel,
his soul spilling through the strings,
echoes that lingered
in all of us,
a communion unspoken.

Now, the church—empty,
its walls hold only absence,
a silence heavy,
slipping like smoke
into obscurity,
the galaxy’s hymn forgotten
before its final note.

His ashes scattered 
   to the wind

November 23, 2024 SGL Brunswick, ME