After Catullus' poem, Ave atque vale, written upon the death of his brother My dear friend is dead, h er shell abandoned. I speak to her ashes, to her vibrant spirit. She struggled against paralyzing disease, carried raw pain on her narrow shoulders, worn thin. Her flame passes into wisps of smoke. Absent faith to anchor me, habit tilts my face skyward, I whisper peace. Of this, I am certain, the world is less without her.