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The Last time I Saw You.

The last time I saw you and talked with you, you were in a dismal hospital bed and I was sad.
You told me two great stories and you were in tears through one of them.
You told me the unforgettable story of the young officer who stood alone through the dances you attended at the Front in North Africa in the Second World War.
'Why is he alone?' you asked a Senior Officer.
' He can't dance' he replied.
You approached him and told him he should learn to dance, 'It's fun.'
You taught him to dance.
Later, not too much later, his mother wrote to you and thanked you for teaching him to dance. You wrote back.
His mother wrote to you again, a mere six weeks later.
He had died, been killed in action in North Africa.
‘I did not reply', you told me. ' What can you say to a mother who has lost her son?'
There were tears in your eyes. In mine too.
I did not think you were going to die then.You did, a few days later. The other story must wait, but it is not as important as the first story.

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