Where Alan Waits

 Leaves of Grass/Song of Myself, 52, by Walt Whitman (excerpt)

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

 My good and faithful friend, Alan, I miss you. I miss your stories and secrets. You prepared your beloved wife and sons and, oh, that grandbaby, for this day. But they miss you, more than I know. Your many friends, such dear, dear friends you had, they miss you. You and they know why. We all miss you, gone too soon from this earth.

 We will all be inspecting the fibers of our boot-soles for evidence of the place you have stopped to wait for us to find you. Until then, my wonderful friend, Shalom!