Two Buddies Meet At God's Acres

Midnight had come, although without me, I lay asleep in Dreamland by Futon. The date was February, the seventh, counting dateline, to thus adjust for overseas and older friends. We were, the two of us, like once upon a time that saw us both, as young and strapping, we stood, me leaning on my father's marble stone, he facing me and pointing, touching, prodding, with his butcher's finger into my chest. And thus he spoke: 'It is the seven, that is my number', to which, confused I did reply: 'Is it the lucky one for you, the seven, as it is for many? ' He did not speak for many moments, just gazed at me with sad black lashes, then, with a nod he shook his head just like the man, you know, the black and revolutionary Doc, the name is Luther, Martin, yes, he rose to heights that stretched his frame beyond all expectation, and shouted now, top of his voice, 'It is my number, not my luck! ' I had sat up in nuisance sweat, and never found my way back into sleep that fateful night. But daylight would erase all traces of this foolishness. But my friend Robert, what a guy! He always was a talker, he did not send or call or write, was incommunicado, there was a note, laconic words, so lonely in the box, it did not beg, ask to be read but showed its awful presence. That night at twelve, he prodded me, to reach my heart with fingers, that had just lost some of their blood and said their last good-bye. He died alone, it was his time and had the manners and the love to pause and say Farewell.