I don’t know

where the old house is.


He painted it some time ago

and gave it to me

in exchange for a box

I made him.


The house

and the field before it

and the flowers

hang in my bedroom

and are easily seen

from where I sit

here in our living room.


Orin was paralyzed  with MS

most of his life

which was longer than expected

and too short for his wife.


He comes here to me often.


I’m not sure why.


I did not know him well

yet through this painting

I’m often visited with his presence.


He’s gone now

and I will later join him

though I don’t know when.


But I trust we’ll meet again.


In the meantime

that old barn keeps reminding me —

keep reminding me of friends

that were and are no more.


May we be born again

sometime — somewhere.



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