His Birthday

It's Feb.24, a Sunday, It is nine AM
And he would be walking through the door
Because it is his birthday
And I always had dinner at my home,
for anyone in our family,
on their birthday.
The house is quiet today.
There is no dinner in the oven
There is no birthday cake
The only normal thing is the
coffee pot full of hot coffee.
Right now, the door would
be opening and he would be
walking in.
Something in his hand,
dessert or something to eat
for the table.
He always did that.
Sunday dinners were always served early.
Around one PM
But he came early.
The others would get here around noon.
He said, that
it was the only way to visit with me.
He said that it got too noisy,
when everyone else arrived.
So he would come early.
And as I was cooking,
we would talk.
How is work?
How are you feeling?
How is the truck running?
Today it is so quiet
you could hear a pin drop.
He is not here.
He lays beneath the earth,
with a black granite stone
setting on his grave.
His picture is etched
on that stone.
I think I didn't want anyone
to forget him.
How could anyone
forget him?
He was one of those
that you could never forget.
Wait!!
Is that the doorbell?
No, it's not.
He's gone.

Floria