I drank a toast to you

(dedicated to Cynthia)

Tonight, Cynthia,

I drank a toast to you.

It was the only way I knew

to honor you

from inside the pain

that your absence left behind.

There was no solace

in rationalizations.

Your time had come

and you had to go.

I know!

In my mourning

I sat at a table

of the little restaurant

right in my town

upon the water.

The night was balmy,

the air was still,

and there we sat,

just you and me,

like years ago

in Berkeley.

And there,

in my solitude,

I remembered you

and softly cried.

And I remembered you

in your house under the oaks.

I remembered you

as you sat with your children,

and your grandchildren

listened to the flies,

while I unplugged the sink.

And I laughed!

I remembered you

when I visited you

in your apartment

over the bay

in St. Thomas.

And we drank a toast

of my favorite gin

you had bought,

in your loving manner,

just for me.

I never knew your dark side,

the one that made you human

like the rest of us.

But you knew mine.

I knew your bright side

the one so dear to me,

that made you so special.

The side that never judged

and always accepted me

as I am.

I remembered

your email jokes,

the ones you sent

two and three times over,

maybe more,

and always made me laugh.

And I remembered you

in your suffering

and how much I worried about you.

And how much I did not want

the pain you felt

to punish you so much.

But now you are free.

Free from the pain

and the punishment

you never deserved.

So tonight,

embraced in these memories,

these fond memories of you,

tonight,

my dear friend,

I drank a toast,

to you!

Monday, October 31, 2005

8:00 PM, in the evening.