Memories from a Death Notice

In the morning paper, George died.
I barely knew him. Back in high school,
when tracking pupils was the way it was done,
George and I were in the same curriculum.

In Latin class he sat in front of me
in the row by the windows.
I might ask him what the third declension
ablative plural suffix was, or he might
ask who Vercingetorix was.  That was as much
as we knew each other.

What I remember more was Latin class.
Mr. Estabrook, about thirty five, 
a Latin scholar of quiet demeanor,
understood our lesser love
of the ancient dead language.
We translated Caesar, Cicero and
works of other literary Romans.  Fridays
Mr. Estabrook read in Latin or English
passages by the greats. Friday
afternoon with Mr. Estabrook was
a relaxed hour of joy.
On fine spring days with the big windows
open, We could gaze at the tall, full maples
and the green field while listening to
Roman poets.

I didn’t in truth know George.  His death
notice carries me back sixty years.