Zeus himself could have lived inside that beard
the whorls of aged white like an entire sky
electric strands straining out from a face
that used to be handsome
or so the woman behind the desk
who is quick to call any man handsome
once told me
after she’d seen a picture from your
(curling at the corners, becoming indefinite)
running years
or your Navy years
or some other years
before this year
of kittens and pornography
not sleeping through the night
skipped medication
self-medication
sitting alone in the dark, the early morning
out in the county where there is hardly a sound at all
at 3:00am
you didn’t sleep for days
on the long trip north to see your mother
to dance with her in the living room
and to bicker with your remaining brother
about the mess that she made
when she ate
because, in moments, you knew
what matters
getting on the bus and leaving the kittens behind
because you wanted to tell your mother goodbye
back when you thought that she was the one
who was going to die
I’m almost certain
that nobody told you they were sorry
to hear that you’d come home to find them
all gone, gathered up
nameless now though you had named them
I know that I didn’t tell you I was sorry
to hear that they were gone
those kittens you’d brought into town
in a box
to show the people who were your friends
the small, furred lives that shared your life
and I know that I spoke with a man
whose beard is much less fine than yours was
(a beard sparse and trimmed, with no room for the twisting of old gods)
about how it was probably good
that the kittens were gone when you got home
back to that place on the ridge
with the mud thick like a moat in the springtime
sitting above the fields and the roofs of little rectangles
fiberglass and aluminum
air conditioners hanging off of them
like loosened teeth
and the windows covered up
to hide what was missing
and what was messy
places just like that place
where you died unattended
on a weekend
Your eyes must have blinked like they did
on the most unremarkable Tuesdays
slow at the edge of a deep, deep sleep
Were you curled like a weary child
with no food in the cubboard
save for beans and rice
beans and rice?
The nights getting cold and the tomatoes turning
into pesticide pulp
all the bins had held on the last day
were potatoes, mealy and sprouting eyes
(forgotten, unwanted things)
still dusted with the earth of this place
where you found yourself
after so many other places
I told them, you know,
these people that will probably forget you
that will only remember you sometimes
when they are counting the sadnesses
that come with their work
that we’d crossed paths before
in that winter of ’77, when I was just a baby toddler girl
with scared brown eyes
in a strange place with my parents
who would sneak out to old van
parked up by the road
to search for twinkies in the glove compartment
some sweetness from the world away
from the mountains in Tennessee
in the middle of the winter
maybe you talked to my father
or thought my mother was beautiful
the way any young man
trying to find some light might
for a second, it seemed like they understood
and then I remembered that they couldn’t
possibly
understand
On some day in the office
that used to be my office
I thought for sure that the gold flecks in your eyes
surely meant something
like stardust
as you spoke about forces and light and dark
the war unseen but surely real
in the way you cried for your lost brother
and the deal you thought you’d made
in spite of the fact
that no matter how many times I told you
You never would believe
that you hadn’t sold his soul
to some man that you would not name
some man that you refused to name
because, you explained, if you told me his name
I would know it
and then it would know me
and I never did say thank you
for sparing me from that fear that you lived with
Do you remember the way I’d make circles
in the stones out front
when we talked about life and death
and the way we’d hold our arms up toward the sky
making circles with our limbs
and the breathing in the dark
both waiting alone and together
for the moment when we could forget
everything that we ever thought we knew about ourselves
and our names and the places we had been
and not been?
Do you remember what you wished for?
I do.
Now, when I see the sun setting earlier and earlier
another winter coming
in the wind and in the rain
and in the first light of every day
trying to turn to gold
the way it does
I imagine that you know
what is in my heart and in my mind
(I hope that you know, somehow.)
that I wish for you everything
that you didn’t have
and that I pray
to the only thing I know how to pray to anymore
that you will
begin again
and begin again
and begin again.
The way you channel your thoughts and experiences into your writing has a truly mystical quality to it, while at the same time remaining grounded, relatable and deeply moving. I’m sorry to hear about your friend, Faith. You’ve written a beautiful tribute to him. Thank you for sharing this precious work.
Ah, thanks for showing up unexpectedly and for knowing my friend a little through reading this remembrance, J. I appreciate the small encouragement, the shared existing, the being seen. Hope the day brings good winds…send me a piano song sometime.
your voice…cannot be given up on…it is what you are speaking through you and there is no way to turn back now. love you.
I love you, M. Thanks so much for spending a few moments holding me in your heart this morning. See you soon…xo.
Thank you, Faith, your words are an incredible force. This is exactly what I needed to read today.