by Joe Cottonwood

He was a beatnik.
I was a hippie.
Just a few years made the difference.
I was caretaker of his dementia.
Me with flower-power tendencies
paid bills, ordered meals, lit candles
for a cranky beatnik atheist
who spoke ten languages,
who sang in the opera.
Could be a setup for a TV sitcom,
my brother and me.

He hated religion, loved philosophy.
We would argue about spirit.
I said we all have a spirit that lives on after we die.
He wasn’t buying it and kept challenging me:
“What is spirit? What do you mean?”
I told him your spirit is like a shadow
except instead of darkness we cast light.
As the sunset neared on his life,
I could sense his spirit growing larger.
He denied it to the end and I love him for that.

I sense his presence still
and he is scowling, shaking his head.

Your spirit is a shadow
lingering
made of light

Your spirit is a shadow
growing longer
into night

Your spirit is a shadow
none can capture
all can see

Your spirit is a shadow
set free

 

 

First published in MOON Magazine