I miss the jokes you’d tell,

the wisdom passed on to me.

“Saving will help you,”

you’d say.

We’d eat a fine feast in the morning haze

or the last light of the day.

You told us stories about when you were young.

We told you your age.

For every year when we came to that spot,

you had forgotten us.

We became friends again within an instant,

you helped with the dinner,

you wrangled the children.

“Wear clothes, brush your teeth.

The lightning won’t hurt you”

you’d say.

Until we last parted you ended things

with a bang, a punching fist, I knew I would never see you again

and so it was.