“I’ll buy,” he said, though he didn’t have

His wallet. Or his phone. Or his keys.

He hardly had his voice,

Most of who he was, stolen,

Ripped away from him, and us,

As a tide of “what the hell”

Washed us all out into the sea of dread.

Of doubt. Of disbelief. Of discontent.

But he looked right at me, and said “I’ll buy,

If you bring me a hamburger.”

Nevermind the fact he couldn’t possibly

Eat a hamburger in his current state.

So I told him, as he nodded

That if he could eat hamburger,

I’d buy him one. And gladly.

“I know you would,” he said.

And these were the last words we exchanged

As I went out the door, leaving him alone

With my extra Christmas tree

And the cards from well-wishers taped to his wall:

“You were smiling yesterday. I liked to see you smiling.”

Which he tried his best to do again,

Though he seemed too tired to do it well.

I was certain that night

That one day soon

I’d be fulfilling that promise

To buy him a hamburger

Or whatever else he wanted,

Never thinking that his last words to me

Would be “I know you would.”

I’m glad he knew, in that moment,

I would have done anything for him.

He would have done the same for me.