I sang to you on your last day. Your eyes locked with mine and I sang to you. We never quite did sing in perfect harmony when we lived together, but together we walked step by step, sometimes talking, sometimes arguing, sometimes eating –meals were never the highlight of the day, but we ate lots of spaghetti and omelets and pop corn and beans and rice and red wine, and when we did play some music together and with others, every single note and sound was perfect and no one played a single wrong note – and even though we clashed and clattered and cried and laughed, when we did play together, music or art or just walking or sitting and listening, every stroke and note was utterly perfect. We were together in our aloneness, we didn’t expect to be filled by each other’s soul and body, but we knew who we were and we knew who we were when we were together and when we were apart. Those last days when I sat with you and didn’t say much of anything, there was no need to really say anything – at times you were alone while I sat there and watched your face. But when I sang to you, I knew you heard me clearly and knew that I have always loved you and will always sing when I think of you. “It’s pure life at this point,” I said to you a few weeks ago. “Pure life,” you laughed, “ a great title for a book.” I dreamed of you last night and we were singing.--------------- Benita (Bonnie) Silverman