You always told me I should go to that deli -

Michael’s Deli, it was your favorite.
Not just because your name was Michael,
you said their roast beef sandwiches were the best you ever had.
I didn’t have the heart to tell you I don’t eat meat.

You would always joke that you kept them in business.
On days when you were feeling strong you would don a medical mask and your paper fingers would hail a cab.
I can imagine your hunched figure inhaling roast beef, memorizing an art book.
Sure beats hospital food. A pause. Sure beats chemo.
Could the sandwich beat cancer, too?

After you died I decided to finally go, a lame type of last-request honoring.
The next Sunday I put on my boots and my coat and I trudged over there through the snow.
I stood on the sidewalk, my foggy breath looked like the smoke you used to exhale.
I stared up at the gold sign. It had looked shinier from across the street.

A woman brushed past me and toward the door.
She held it open, “You coming in?”
I froze for a heartbeat then bolted down the street.

The deli is closed now.
The building is up for sale.

I wonder what would have happened if I had gone.
Could I have kept it in business?
Could I have saved it?
Could I have saved you?