They run together in my thoughts
as strange a pair as ever there was;
a blind old man and a small dog
playing jubilantly on the dark green park grass,
though neither was spry nor jubilant
when I saw them last.
All the time I knew Grandpa
he was white hair old,
overweight, in a rocking chair,
sightless in a beautiful world.
Mini was old, tired, wobbly,
when the vet, dead now too,
put her in a better place,
but I remember her differently;
an excitedly wild black and white rat terrier
full of life, love and licks.
somebody told me that when you die
you go to a place where others have gone before you
and the people who meet you there
are those you most cared for,
or cared most for you.
In the worst moments of depression
I can smile at the sight
of that old, white haired man
running to greet me,
with that small rat terrier
yipping at his heels.
Death then, isn’t the end,
but the beginning