Ah Al, I’m sure neither of us knew I’d write about your death the day after but I want to talk with you.
When first they whisper cancer, run fast as you can to the rooftop and scream. ‘Out, damn spot!’
But it didn’t go, Ali. It took up residence and festering it grew, squeezed, raged your body into submission.
Spread out its’ dirty doonas and made itself comfortable for the long haul. A plastic bag of homelessness here and there, til by the end a trolley full resting next to you?
The attack on the body no measure for your beautiful spirit, you soared throughout. And, at the end, you did death so well. Such an inspiration to us who grieve, our conversations now one sided…
I wish you a swift and good rebirth my dear friend, all pain done. With much metta xxx