Memorial
I was sitting in the room with Phil Whalen When he got that call from Allen. It was the room where I had served Them tea and cookies many times While they told stories, joked and laughed. It was at about the same time that Allen usually dropped in On his old friend, Just before Zazen, The time for everything and nothing. Sometimes, a memory would Float to the surface and they’d Go on and on, words and memories Bouncing off one another Sometimes sad, more often bright Then no words. But always love. “I’m so sorry,” said Phil’ “Thank you for calling,” His voice trailing off. He put down the phone, His voice soft and shaken. “Allen’s dying,” he said. “I’m so sorry." Then he cried. I’d never seen him cry before.