It was a little bit past seven
when I walked into his room;
the lights were off, the drapes were pulled,
it looked more like a tomb than the “home” of my beloved.
But here is where he waited.
What I could not understand
is why he would be here and not at home at rest with me
where I could hold him near.
But this is where he waited.
Oh, they knew him at the hospice,
at least, they knew his name, but I was his “compadrè”,
their love was not the same.
Yet here is where he waited.
I opened up the curtains to let some daylight in,
he sat up, looked at me, then said with a grin, “Mì Compadrè!”
His voice sounded so thin,
so tired of waiting.
He motioned me on over,
so I sat down by his side, took his hand, stroked his hair,
and held him as he died.
He no longer waited.
= = = = = = =
It’s been two years since that day.
Today I went back to his grave to return a treasure to my love,
one I thought I’d always save.
“I’ve come to say good-bye, sweet Mitchel.”
The words fell from my lips as the ring he always wore for me
fell from my fingertips.
I knelt one last time
and placed a rose beside the stone.
Then, with tears streaming down my face
I wished for one last long embrace
and was glad I was with him in that place
the day the angels stopped their waiting,
and took sweet Mitchel home.