poem by Bob Nimmo photograph, "Remember Me in Paradise," by Maura H. Harrison
Her brother died the other day
and then she came to me.
Her hair flowed loosely over cheeks
which pain had riven grey
evacuating any taste of gentle bloom
and tinkling tears left little room
for ought I had to say.
He is not dead I croaked
but then I knew he was.
He’s travelled on beyond
but so unsure
how could I know
how far beyond
his wretched soul could go.
How could I know
enough to heal her hurt and
catch her grief in tender words
of genuine relief.
He was a man who did much good
I staggered with a plastic smile
but in my heart I knew he was
a champion of guile.
Then her eyes deep pooled
such love and hope that I would
in my words confirm the stories
she’d been fed from childhood.
And I found I could.
There was no leap for me.
I knew on blood-soaked Calvary
a stranger had become a friend
to thieves. How much could
half-truths matter then.
I squeezed her hand and wordlessly
gave her a friend to cling to.