“Turn right up here,” he says.
“Follow the circle around to the other side and stop.”
I know where we are going
But I say nothing.

His eyes redden as I put the car in park.
I turn away to look out the window,
At the orange and yellow bouquet sitting on the slight grassy hill.
He silently leaves the car and walks toward that bouquet.

I watch as he approaches the cold stone in the ground.
Head down.
Hands in pockets.
After a brief moment, he turns to come back to the car.

He wipes his eyes where he thinks he is hidden,
But I can see him through the mirror.
He gets back in the car calmly.
“It was a year ago today,” he says.
As the red washes back into his eyes and the tears begin to form.
“I really miss him.
He was my best friend, you know.”

Pictures of my father's friend,
Weakened,
Pale,
Less than a hundred pounds,
His body eaten away by the treatments,
Flash through my mind.
Along with my father's face
Coated with tears
And burning red.
His hands squeezing the rim of the coffin.

We begin to head home,
Neither of us talking,
Just holding back the sobs
And remembering our friend.