One last time:
She was the maid-of-honor, I
Was organist.
She stopped to ask me
How I’d been since graduation, she
Was now engaged, the wedding in a year.

But I’d been sick, and she
Could tell, much thinner, covered up in clothes,
As summer wedding: no real time for layers.

“You don’t look well,” she said.
“I haven’t been.”
“Can I ask what’s wrong?”
“If they knew, then I would, too.”

Out on the deck, beside the bay,
Just minutes from the fishing bridge,
But I recall like yesterday
Her, wearing that red hat.

I got an invitation later, but
Poor health prevented me
From going to her wedding, or
To work, or anywhere at all.

There is no moral to this story:
She moved on, and so did I,
And slowly age will cover up
These times we shared,

For all they were

Were times