The past returns in fragments
and at the oddest times (like now).
and inability to communicate,
his broken English
and dancing eyes.
Warmth exuded from him as we sat there in silence.
His hands were rough and well worn,
they seemed too big for his body.
I don’t know why I think of his hands.
He was a farmer
and loved his garden,
where we would sit in silence,
as the cancer ate at him from within.
© Matthew Schiavello 2009