by George Frantz
At first, the loss…
Sharp, brutal,
An overwhelming panic…

Later, the yawning emptiness,
Like an abyss, invading your unguarded moments,
Little things missed…
A demanding whine, a mumble…
Realizing you will never hear it again
Plunges you into a well of sadness

The movie plays repeatedly in your head,
Scenes of things together
and time apart,
snatches here and there, small reminders,
and you cry again.

Finally, though, it seems to fit:
His stubborn refusal to give up when you were gone,
His grumbling acceptance of the insults of old age,
Rewarded by a warrior’s death,
Swift, but in the arms of those he loves.

The pain, like a bruise,
Sharp and searing at first,
And lingering a long while.

But over time, what remains is the love,
The admiration of his fierce independence,
And the realization that,
In all the world,
There will never be another
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