In a poem I once read

On an un eventful day

The most inconsequential words

Did a poet to me say

She wrote that one day she would die

Relinquish all her earthly ties

She told me how to spend my time

Should she be gone by the morrow

I read it then I put it down

I lived my life

so safe

so sound

For of her words I was previously privy

all lives must end, that was no mystery

Oh how I long for those days

When I'd come to your house and we'd laugh and we'd play

and you'd trade me a trick in exchange for a smile

and you'd tender me change with hugs and nicknames

For the birthday celebrations and

the holiday dinners

the road trips and cookouts

the late nights and homemade gumbo

for the comfort of knowing we'd do it again

that at any given time I'd be welcome to come in

For knowing that in the market we'd meet

in the same isle coincidentally

and you I could with my love greet

and you would do the same to me.

And now I fear the consequence of what I'm compelled to do

As in my head my poet's words ring ever clear and true.

My poet, in the final stanza, had the audacity to say:

“When all that's left of me is love, give me away."