At The Finish Line (For Alan Jacobson)

At the finish line, there are no beginnings.

Just loose ends that need to be tied.

Fixed.

And tidied up as if a great man had fallen and couldn't get up on his own.

I am muddled in thinking which way I am leaning toward, how I'm supposed to deal with your demise; I can see it in your eyes, so real, so true, so impending, so difficult to know and to understand, but move on I must.

When I think about you, I think about your wit, your great sarcasm that felled any man who dared try and topple you, what thread that tied you to your father, that was never uncut, how you two shared the same persona in life.

And now in death, I hate to think about you in this way, but in this defining moment.

I really don't have a choice, just a choked-up voice.

From the tears sliding down my throat.