My Painting

I've been teasing my friend, Will, for years about my painting.  He's an incredible artist.  Beautiful, sensitive, gentle, passionate and very talented.  He'll call and the first thing and last thing I ask is always, "So how's my painting coming along?"  He always makes some excuse.  He once called me demanding, pushy and consuming.  We laugh about that.  He says he doesn't remember saying it.  And I call him Will, just to tick him off.  His name is Bill.

Will died last week. 

That is not supposed to happen.  Even though you've been warning me that you were dying, I just didn't believe you.  I mean, I knew you really weren't painting a picture for me and as long as I didn't have my painting, I just didn't think you'd leave me. 

I always said things like, "We're all dying.  Stop talking about it."  Because I'm selfish and I couldn't bear it.  I am so sorry, Will.  I wish I'd have listened better.

Death of loved ones is always a kick in the pants.  But Will, this has rolled over me like a tank.  I will write something original for you. You deserve at least that, even though I have a blank wall in my bedroom awaiting a painting that will never come.

But for now my friend, I'll let James Taylor do the talkin' for me.  I know you'll understand.

     The sun is surely sinking down, but the moon is slowly rising.
     So this old world must still be spinning 'round and I still love you.
     So close your eyes.  You can close your eyes, it's all right.

     I don't know no love songs, I can't sing the blues anymore.
     Oh, but I can sing this song
     And I will sing this song now you're gone.

I hope your new adventure is even more wondrous than your last.  I'll meet you in the ether, Darlin'.