We took the toll road, a slightly faster
route to the funeral home. We parked just
as Amens gave way to Remember whens.

Pews emptied, the slideshow in the background.
Across the chapel, he saw I was there. 
We were best friends once, and it all came back.

His mom fed me & tolerated me
countless noisy weekend nights. One more kid
giggling down the hall well past their bedtime.

He has grown into a man who shows love
by touch, hugging, his hand on my shoulder.
We stood just like that. His loving hand still.
Years peeled away, our brown eyes locked, glistened.

And I said what my wife's family says:
May her memory be a blessing. And
right there, we shared, revived those memories.

A big wreck slowed our way home, thick red line
on the GPS, an artery slowed
to urban crawl through urban sprawl. We talked
as only families can. "He got old!"
"Who was that again?" "Where will he live now?"

My pocket buzzes. "Thanks for coming. Great
seeing all of you." I text a reply,
imagine him watching the three dots flash,
waiting to see what his best friend will say. 

Written in community with VerseLove, a group of mostly educators writing a poem every day of April (National Poetry Month). The prompt for today: Write a poem about loss.