The mountain

My friend died of cancer. He was a tough guy. He told me stories of violence and what troubled me he seemed to enjoy telling them. He got pancreatic cancer. Near the end he began drinking heavy, smoking, and eating crap food. He believed in re-incarnation. Though I don’t think he knew much about it. He was bigger than life. He had a presence that would light up a room. My friend was a drifter. So am I. We met in a rooming house. When he died not one of his family came to the funeral. He used to visit my house in the mountains. He loved the mountains. He would talk about a poem I wrote, it was almost as if he wrote it. When he died we collected his ashes. We took them to my mountains. We had to climb a ladder to get to the landing that overlooked the valley below. The sun was beginning to fall. Down below in my friend’s car a piece of music was playing by Phillip Glass. I can’t remember the piece. I read my poem. His ashes were thrown over the side and they shimmered like a curtain mist. We got home late and drank a few beers….

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