see, there is a small box in my garage
with all the last notes and ruminations
final thoughts and musings about dying
you'd thought to scribble down in haste

inside there is a crumpled paper
that at first I was too quick to open
too callous to consider what it might mean
and my heart sank into my feet

the page was naked from top to bottom
save for two words written legibly
and painfully in the upper left
in that distinctive cursive of yours

"Dear Andrew,"