I seek not
a kindred soul,
universal connection,
I seek one
single constant,
fixated absolute,
truth amid illusion.
Great Uncle Junis died
and was buried
on Christmas Eve.
Thirty-one people
came to see him off.
I saw him in a suit
for the first time in my life;
no wife, no children,
no wealth to leave
only the memory of his joy
when he played the French harp
and sang for passers-by.
I think of an Aztec poem,
that says though I perish
the songs I sang will still be sung.
So I make a place
for his music to live
forever in my soul.
Adios, mi tio,
last legacy of my grandfather’s
generation. Adios.