For John, Who Died Anyway

Leaves pasted together 

by dew   carpet the path 

across the meadow.  

Twigs snap under your boots.

You stride out    head high    push 

challenge   stare down the cancer 

that   robbed you   first of a 

kidney   then a lung.  

I clamber after you 

up a steep hill   jeans wet 

to the knees.  You pause   

lean on your stick   suck air 

march toward the gurgle of   

the periwinkle spring.

Winded   I scramble   half-jog  

struggle to keep up

uproot vines to plant at

my back door   a symbol 

of your strength this day.  

Across the road   the smell

of wet hay penetrates

our noses.  Your stick a sword 

you lash at underbrush

lead me through a thicket 

to the creek   point out 

mountain laurel in bloom. 

I snap blossoms   bunch them

in a bouquet of sorts.

Tiring   you tug in 

a broken breath   attack 

the hill as I scramble 

alongside   take your hand

never a thought that you

would die.

© cj  Schlottman