He Was Just A Friend

He was just a friend..
a mild acquaintance
but someone who was there
someone who cared

he kept up the landscape
and took care of stray cats
he kept us up to date
on the gossip at hand
about the people who lived
in the small cottages on Hamilton
where we lived too

his back was humped, his mind quick
his humor sharp
his laugh was big, honest and true

when Woody died and I moved away
he’d send me a card every Christmas Day
“Now when you don’t receive a card one of these years
you’ll know I’m gone,” he would always light-heartedly say

we talked now and again, rather occasionally
but this year more often as something in me ‘knew,’ as his pain grew
talking, laughing, keeping his death at bay
just for a few more months… hours.. days…

‘the one touch can opener,’
his new stray cat…
the latest on the president
small talk about this and that

his honest admission with a flirtatious hearty chuckle
that he couldn’t believe someone of my stature and beauty
would take the time to call and chat
with him.. of all people
quickly adding
he hoped Woody and Rob would pardon him
for being so forward and bold… about ‘that!’

I had to laugh, and now I cry
to realize his lonely heart was slightly wooed
his pain dulled and soothed
humanities caring and compassion – devoured soul food

a friendship formed and dropped anchor
years holding steady with Christmas cards and light cheery phone chatter
has been pulled up and put on the shore
my dear friend Dick Gondick has gone home

(c) 2013 Christina M. James
4/4/13