I only met you a couple of times.
I was told that you “ruled this place with an iron first,” but you were nice enough to me.
I had been trying to escape the $100 condo application fee, and hence you, when you caught up with me leaving the pool.
I was drinking out of a glass container, and although there was a big fat sign saying, “no glass containers,” you mentioned it rather casually.
Perhaps that’s what happens when you’re about to go. Things that you once held onto tightly, you now hold with a loosened grip.
I didn’t know how close you were then, but you did seem a bit feeble and out of sorts. Like you were moving through a fog.
You gave me a phone number to call for my application, and I listened as you told me about the college reunion in New Hampshire that you had been wanting to attend but would be skipping on account of being sick.
Little did I know that day that you were vanishing before my eyes. In a couple of weeks, you’d be gone.
In your wake: a flag ceremoniously flown at half-mast for you, while others jeered,
“The witch is dead!”