“Relics that were sweet when fate and God allowed, receive this soul and free me from these cares. I have lived, and run the course that Fortune gave me, and now my mighty ghost will pass under the earth...

Aeneid Book 4, lines 642 – 668 by Virgil

Thanatos loomed over the month, glooming. His fingers scratched the alleyway across my life; the grating echoes bled my tears. I just came home from consoling a grieving widow way north of where I intended to be today.

I tried to finish the ninth book of a love sonnet. Yet, the image of death barely escaped me. All of this is fleeting. I just came home from consoling a grieving son and in-laws miles north of where I was this evening. I took a picture of the wreath that I bought.

People mourned the dead, but they mourned differently. They whispered about the dead’s life: “He was such a good A, such a good B. He was of use to me.”

“He was of use to me.”

Pheme grates a string in the exact alleyway where my life lives.

I hope my death, someday, somehow, matters and be of no use to any of you. Please remember me for who I am, or else.