Quietly

They come down on strings, he says. In a voice like worn, cracked leather he says "Parachute silk, that's what they're on. See, they chase the patterns" and he laughs, like I didn't get the joke, but the punchline is weak. His hand is in his pocket, he shakes the loose change, it rattles, as if it knows it may never see another till, or purse, and worse still, the monogrammed handkerchief knows, it knows its initials are written in stone, and I carried him there, to his resting place, He is there, still.