It seems odd.
          Hard to grasp, perhaps.
      (Too much of a change?)
All of the things that have become routine . . .
. . . simply won't happen anymore.
Yet -
          it's still as though something is unfinished . . .
          not yet complete, or final . . .

There was some finality in watching them write his name on the "In Memory of" sign.

People around me are still crying, sniffling, sobbing
I'm rather catatonic, now.
I answer questions in monotone,
          without inflection
A familiar woman comes up and asks how we're doing.
Not wanting to speak for the others,
          I merely nod.

"He was a good man"
          she drones
"One of a kind"
          she drones
"We could never replace him"
          she drones

Shut up.

          I admit I'm surprised by my hostility.
          But I slowly begin to understand why it's there.

I've never been that close to death:
No close family members have died,
No friends, no loved ones . . .
The most frequent place I've seen death
          is on the television
People are repeating the same words
                              over and over and over
The same cliches,
The same imprinted lines,
That they have come to believe are the standard.
The words are said,
          regardless
                    of whom the person was
"We'll always love him"
"He is at rest now"
"We'll keep him in our hearts"

Shut up.

I know what he was.
I don't need you to tell me that.
Don't turn him into another statistic
          by using the same cliches
Don't make him into another number
          an impersonal digit
He was more than that.

He was like a family member to me.
          And he knew it.
"Come on, son. Tell me."
          he would console
"How are you?"
          he would speak

You know . . . come to think of it . . .
He was the most unique man I've ever known.
He was so filled of small quirks and traits
          that it would have taken hours to list them all
          and you could have done so
                    but never get bored for a moment

It's funny.
          (Not ha-ha funny. Weird funny.)
He was always the guy I pictured coming back,
          years from now
          to visit
                    To see how he was doing.
                    To laugh, to joke, to remember
Now, I can still do that . . .
But it will just be me.

I don't really know where this leaves me.
I don't really know how this will change things.
I know it will change my life
But it can never undo what he's already done
          for me

I will never forget.