We knew that he was dying
but it was a hazy kind of knowing,
blind and fuzzy round the edges.
We continued to tussle over the handlebars
of his wheelchair, parade his smile proudly
around the playground. We knew the trail of silver coins
spelling out his name would save him;
we had faith in their magic.
There was no place for death,
no colour crayon to draw him with.
He didn’t fit in our lunchboxes,
we whipped him away with skipping ropes,
sealed his eyes with glitter glue.

We would ring the entire school with ten-cent hopes
if we had to; in the end, we nearly did.
By that time all that remained of him
was a thin shrub with a small white plaque,
bound tight with black netting to keep vandals at bay.
Frail green thumbnails of leaves. And the memory
of crying on the classroom carpet
as the hometime songs were sung,
his clumsy embrace, a kiss on my cheek.
I don’t remember why I cried
but I remember the boxing-glove red of his hair,
the way he never mentioned the word disease.