Ode To A Friend

Nacho is gone now. So quickly the verdict turns from hope to death. And so quickly they provide that death.

Nacho deserved a far better life than the one he got. But he never seemed anything less than happy with what he had.

I am glad he was coddled and cared for in his final few days. I wish I could have held him one last time. I wish I could have been there for him in that terrible, cold, clinical room where they turn things from warm and sentient to cold and insensate. Maybe I could have helped him be a little less scared.

Though Nach was never scared of much. I think he was mostly just tired. And though people always say, "Oh, be so glad you didn't see him at the end. He looked so bad, better to remember the good times."

That doesn't really work for me. I always loved my big orange stinky baby no matter the circumstance.

I'm sorry, Nacho. You deserved better.

On the inescapability of death, the demise of hope, and all our wasted time.
 
Funeral Blues--W.H. Auden
 
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.