Ending

Lynne Glowacki, May 19, 2020, Reston, Virginia

“That’s my name,” she had said—
Augustina”—when I told her my son’s name (Morgan August).
That was the day we met at church over coffee and muffins with Jane, my friend, her daughter.
She died in March.
(was it March? I can’t remember. What month is it now?)
She had moved North and you think
You think you might see someone again soon or sometime but
She’s your friend’s mother not your friend not really
Until she dies and you remember how much you really liked her.
And she seemed to like her name more now that someone else used it.

(Is it May? How can it be May?)

Michael died in April.
His wife and high school sweetheart posted to the alumni board and
Boy did that bring everyone together
(our 30th reunion would have done that in June
But there are no reunions anymore
At least not in New York)

And there’s no church and coffee and muffins
Or meeting mothers of friends

There’s only the missing:
The hum and the chatter,
The dates on the calendar,
The people we don’t miss until we realize
The last touch we had was the last.

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