By: J.T. Evergreen
The poetry in writing is the illusion it creates.
(© 2019 by the author)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

Every time we say goodbye, I die a little. The first time we said goodbye was the morning after the first night we were together. For some reason, I did not want to leave. I felt so comfortable just being there next to you. I almost cried when you suggested I stay since it was a long weekend. It wasn’t long enough for either of us.

We became such good friends, or was it a friendship begun lifetimes ago and we picked it up where we left off before. It seemed that way to me. There were many little goodbyes for this, that, and the other, and every time we said goodbye, I wondered why a little.

When your call to duty came and you were gone from me, I wondered why the gods above, who must be in the know, thought so little of me . . . they allowed you to go.

When your first leave came, when you were near again, there was such an air of spring about it. I swore I could hear a Lark somewhere begin to sing about it. How I cherished each moment we were together because I knew there was no love finer. And then you were gone again and I wondered how strange the change from major to minor – every time we said goodbye, I died a little.

When the telegram came, I knew . . . there would be one more goodbye . . . and I would truly die a little. I stood straight and stoic, when they brought you home, as I crashed inside and cried to the gods above – why had they taken you from me?

I stood alone on the green and threw a yellow rose when it was time to go. And as I left, I heard a Lark again, singing oh so true. It was then I knew . . . there was no love finer.

“It’s been so very wonderful, my friend.

“It’s been everything.

Goodbye . . . until we meet again.”


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Posted: 01/25/19