On this night
on the eve of a day of remembrance.
I think of Doug
and his wild art,
The size of garage doors
and full of vibrant life,
bursting from the bricks
of his studio.
For Lyle Jean,
his soft southern drawl
and his wicked sense of humor,
his life ended in a whisper.
and his wicked sense of humor,
his life ended in a whisper.
And for the last one I lost to Aids.
A three year old boy in foster care
I knew his mother , a nurse
who cared for this abandoned baby
filling his short life with laughter, joy,
and love in spite of pain.
His last words, "Mommy, I figured it out".
We celebrated him with pizza and balloons
set free on a spring day.
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