None, as I renamed him during our undergraduate years at Guilford College, and I have always remained, oddly close; strange phrasing for someone who fancies himself a man of words to pick over his selection of available adjectives and adverbs to come up with something rather mundane; however, that is often how it is with friendships that manage to endure, especially when the reasons for such longevity are as mysterious as the friendship itself. I have struggled in turbulent waters from the wake of his passing, intensely disturbing for one whose penchant for logic and reason has been the foundation for critical analysis instead of navigating emotional introspection. I had just emailed him the day before I learned of his death. It had been much longer than usual between receipts of emails from None but I had no reason to be alarmed: some silly message would no doubt arrive out of the blue as was frequently the case with him, often responding to my questions and responses with what appeared as an absurdly illogical redirection; that was vintage None. So I waited for him to pick up the thread of our conversation –climate change, photos of my dogwoods and azaleas blooming nearly a month too early.
Eventually, each of us must find a way to console himself; in its most primitive form, loss is both unutterable and unbearable; it will destroy us if we are not able to refine its painful dross. My own alchemy has been words –ground in the crucible of experience, purified in the alembic of meaning, and always in search of a golden caduceus: a poem.
Can a stone heal a wound, save a life, or calm the angry waters of despair? I do not know; but, if an elixir exists that is drawn from the essence of life and of our companions for which we, who remain, are caretakers, I will gladly offer a toast with the first draft: To None!
The Lilacs Are Blooming
for JFM
The lilacs are blooming
three weeks too early,
but I wrote you this yesterday,
and sent along the photographs
conveniently imbedded in an email
to prove how prematurely the flowering
dogwoods had opened their christened
blossoms, each petal stained
to commemorate an ancient wound,
unction for Easter’s morning pageantry
of trumpets, rabbits, and eggs dyed
and scattered about like gemstones,
hidden treasures waiting to be
discovered by just the right child:
I’ve told you this before, altered
slightly with thematic variations.
The elements of our conversation
are covered with the dust of familiarity;
and, remain undiminished by the pace of our
exchange while we have been
content to savor words that invigorate
less common images unwilling
not to reach beyond convention.
Your silence was not as surprising
as its persistence; the empty queue,
taciturn in its nothingness,
foreboding in its indifference,
was unchanging. Sooner or later
I knew some phantom non sequitur
would appear as bait; I’d bite and off we’d scurry
following its direction wherever it led.
Temperatures have been rising lately,
Maine’s winter ice has melted from
your favorite kayak haunts;
after all you had just chided me
that our southern rivers were
ready for paddling. But it was later
that I learned it will be later when
we take up this conversation again.
I will wait to be regaled with
your story of the nomadic Masai
who still drink the blood of their cattle
but carry cell phones to track
their herds; I will wait for your
photograph of the sun setting over
the Rift Valley and imagine the clouds
gathering over Mount Longonot like spirits
moving over the face of the deep.
