You come with us to a picnic ground. Scattered cottonball clouds float across a blue summer sky. Lush, green grass feels soft under our feet. Maple and birch trees enclose the area.
We sit at a weathered picnic table splintering with age. You wear your cream short-sleeve shirt, khaki shorts and those worn, summer casual shoes you refuse to replace. Your litany of complaints soon flow. How the chemo hurts so bad you could cry. How you could have accomplished so much more if someone—anyone—had given you the chance. How you have so much to offer, if only we would listen to you.
winter morning . . .
of his last laments
first published in Haibun Today