The Prosthetic Hand Remembers

The speaker turns toward the screen and every sentence becomes text. Not perfect text.

Your name remains in the group chat, a small green circle beside the last thing you said:

Two doctors lean toward one screen, one where the snow has closed the road, one three countries east.

I woke before you and did nothing about it. The radiator ticked. Your shoulder rose and fell.

After she died, her garden kept going—which felt, at first, like a betrayal.

The eulogy is the hardest poem: you must condense a life into minutes, make a room full of crying people laugh at least once.