The Last I Saw Bill

Frank Sinatra lost one of
his biggest fans three years ago,
and I didn't even know.

Chance memory of someone that I used to know,
his voice as smooth as the silk handkerchiefs
Sinatra always wore. We sang together, met for
lunch downtown, so long ago the restaurant has
been replaced. He offered sage advice: Not every
question must be answered, just because a person
asks. He was a writer, loved Ole' Blue Eyes,
scoffed at those who read how to improve relationships. "Go somewhere," he crooned, "and drink some wine together." And this morning when I looked him up on Facebook, someone else's face, too young, was there, and when I googled just his name, I found
that he's been gone three years. I wish I'd known, before,
that he had lost a son, important information that had
not come up at lunch, the conversation over salad
geared instead to happy thoughts. The last place that
I saw him was a party - I forget the year, but not
the way we said good-bye, as friends who'd never see
the other's face again, a memory still held as gently as
he always held a final note, like cherished lyrics
to a song whole melody still haunts one in the night.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014