I'll read a poem by a friend of mine, Marie Howe.
She's written a lot of really truly wonderful poems
about the death of her brother by AIDS.
And they're just, of course, just about human life too.
But that's sort of in the background.
It's that sort of absence of a person who was once here
is in the background, as I guess it always is.
It's called "Buddy," which is the name of a dog.
"Buddy"
"Andy sees us to the door, and Buddy is suddenly
all over him, leaping and barking because Andy said walk.
Are you going to walk home, he said to me.
And Buddy thinks him and now.
And he's wrong.
He doesn't understand the difference
between sign and symbol, like we do,
the thing and the word for the thing, how
we can talk about something when it's not even there,
without it actually happening, the way I talk about John.
Andy meant soon.
He meant me.
As for Buddy, Andy meant later, when he was good and ready,
he said.
Buddy doesn't understand.
He's in a state of agitation and grief, scratching at the door.
If one of us said 'Andy' when Andy wasn't there,
that silly Buddy would probably jump up barking
and begin looking for him."