“The truth shall make you free.”
      —John, VIII: 32

He was so sweet propped on pillows
in the back seat of our Chevy station wagon,
boy-blue eyes wide open,
hoping for a fried-fish sandwich
and maybe a piece of apple pie from McDonalds,
where he said he’d never eaten in his life.

We watched the August corn glow gold, then brown,
then blacken slowly in the setting sun.
We were driving back from the Mayo Clinic
where two world-renowned doctors
had just informed him he might live six months,
then told us secretly he’d be lucky to grab three.

“Great guys. They told the truth,” he said.

He couldn’t sleep, and held my hand in his giant fingers
as artlessly as if I were his mother,
trusting me to love him as I did.
He was in good spirits
as if we’d been on a marvelous trip to a far away place
full of adventure and simple everyday hope.