Well, it never entered my mind, but now that you mention it, yes, I do remember when you died.
I remember when God peered down over your shoulder at the words on the page of your typewriter.
You left a suicide note, but for whom no one will ever know, since no one can decipher it.
Not that it matters really, now that you are no longer with us, you might as well have moved to Chad.
Smack in the middle of nowhere, with all the time in the world, nope, you decided to visit hell.
At least, that's what the priest told me, when he said we couldn't bury you in our cemetery plot.
Remind me why I put money into the collection basket every Sunday since I turned five.
It's a rhetorical question, no need to attempt an answer, not like you really can now, huh?
You sit on the mantle between all the urns of dead cats you found over the years in the alley.
All strays, you gave them each a name, one after another, they found our home just welcoming enough.
What more could they ask for, you fed them, took them to the vet, even gave the feral ones as much love
as they could ever want, as cats go they had it all, you took them in, when no one else cared a lick.
Now what am I supposed to do, go on living after you left, no, it never entered my mind.
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