I stand at the grave of a friend who died
on a hot July night four years ago.
His life is etched into a solemn stone
starting and ending with numbers:
1962, 2005.
A good friend’s grandmother is dying
in a nursing home down the road.
I should go visit her before she departs,
but I am selfish and prefer to remember her
sitting at the kitchen table, eating pretzels.
Jesus healed the sick and fed the poor
but then He cried in a garden
and was hung on a cross.
I have no map for this life, but I tend to see:
every good story
moves us towards death.
