In Juelas' apartment,
there is a skateboard.
It sits on a shelf.
Below the shelf is a row of candles lit.
The candles dance to Miles Davis sobs
and to the beat of young Sam Cooke's heart
long gone, for those staying strong,
and friends who stay and say goodbyes.
Years will pass and
Wrapping on unopened Christmas gifts
smelling of menthol cigarettes
still fastened with yellowed tape
will easily tatter;
and the picture of him on Santa's lap
will fade at its edges and on the red suit.
The skateboard will collect dust
and will be wiped clean monthly.
Yet memories of his apple-cheeked
jokes and laughter,
his bright eyes and smile