Sonny

Sonny and I were in a play together.
I didn't think all that much of his
acting, but he was funny and definitely
more worldly than most folks in that
armpit of a town I called home for
three years, three long, cold years.
One day at a coffee shop we both
frequented, Sonny called me over
to his table and spoke to me more
frankly than he ever had. It was
cancer of the stomach, he said.
I could tell he wasn't hopeful, but
all I could think, I remember clearly,
was, "Thank God it's not me."
A natural reaction, I've learned.
Not long after Sonny told me his story,
I sat in the same coffee shop telling him
about my own health's recent turn for
the worse. I came to see, quickly, that
my reaction to Sonny's condition was
more loving and well-tempered than
most everyone else he or I knew.
I didn't stop calling him my friend,
calling him to say Hi, writing him
letters; no, in fact, those efforts at friendship
were only stepped up as his days grew
fewer. Is it only fear which makes
our friends and family turn away?
Is it really more selfish than that--
are they disappointed at what they're
stuck with? I mean to ask:
how disappointed are those close to us
when they shut up their minds and hearts?
Do they ever learn to be disappointed in
themselves for having so little love to give?

(2006)