My friend, Patrick, sent me poems (What’s He Thinking is thanks to him). He was the only person who did. But he spent these last few weeks of summer slipping away from us, day by day. Friday I sat by the side of his bed, chatting and laughing with his nephew/namesake Patrick. My Patrick smiled and fluttered his hand at us to let us know he heard, but he was too weak to speak.
When the pain grew too great he clasped my hand while his nurse dripped soothing morphine between his lips and down his throat. When I left I kissed his lips, his hands, his forehead.
Monday morning I called to ask if he was entertaining visitors. In my heart, I knew the answer already. Patrick died Sunday night.