I’m really glad you’re happy
I’ve worried about you
I know we’re very different
The things we’ve each been through
For trouble’s lined your pathway
With much that was not good;
And decisions that you’ve made
I never really understood
But I have always loved you
That’s unlikely to cease;
I’m really glad you’re happy
And finally found
Some peace
There is an age where boys and girls are friends
Before the madness comes, in puberty;
When differences do not seem so remote
Acceptance is their common currency
But years turn into hormones, and we set
Ourselves apart in gender mystery:
And kids who once spent hours off alone
Walk by each other, like they do not see
And some say then, that friends we cannot be,
For sexual desire is too strong:
And though a boy and girl may really try,
Their thoughts turn to attraction before long
I think this theory’s stupid, and here’s why:
I know attraction’s real, and we all feel it –
But banks all have the money we desire,
That doesn’t mean we all go try to steal it
To say we can’t be friends because of sex
Is patently untrue; we just don’t try.
Which is a shame; we miss out on a lot –
With most of us not ever knowing
Why
When I last wrote about her
It was at my first real dance;
But soon, she was my first real love,
My very first romance –
And all that lovers always feel
We also underwent —
The crystal pure elation
That we could not help but vent –
And it was like real happiness
Was something new to me;
When she was anywhere nearby
I was in ecstasy –
But, strange in thinking back, how much
Of heartache we went through;
Of all the infidelity,
The cheating we’d each do –
Our love was real, though. Very real.
Although we grew estranged;
The love between us still remained —
It is that “us”
That changed
we ran along the meadow,
and climbed up in our tree;
there’d never been two other friends
like you and me.
but we grew up and sideways,
and dreamed of other fields —
the friends and trees we leave behind
while each still yields
her regrets, like the ocean
in their immensity and constant turmoil
surrounded both of us –
far too real to be ignored
because i loved her,
i left her ocean undisturbed;
because i love her,
i offer only my
acceptance
we who live
live with imperfect knowledge;
we cannot know outcomes
there we sat,
surrounded by the ocean;
here i sit now,
surrounded by my own thoughts
my friend:
i do love you.
and love,
like stars that hover
high above any ocean,
does not change the water,
but give us –
if only for a time –
something else
to look at
Another restless night, up and down, up and down. When sleep finally came, images and stories poured in like floodwater.
There’s a girl with a bicycle in a field in France; it is August – August, 1939. The war is just about to start, but she can’t know that yet. I know her in my dream, but in real life, she is someone I know now, a young someone who lives far away. But here she is France on the eve of World War 2.
It’s beautiful, but it feels ominous.
When I wake up, I’m trying to make sense of it. I spent almost nine months last year reading every WW2 book and watching every WW2 documentary and movie that I could find. And I had talked to my friend via text on Instagram earlier that day. So she ended up in Alsace on a vintage bicycle, wearing a vintage dress and hat as the clouds of war and genocide gather over Europe.
I am disturbed by all of this along several dimensions: the fear of impending doom, as well as thinking of all the people who were about to die horrible deaths 70 years ago this month. I’m also at least mildly disturbed any time a woman who is not my wife shows up in my dreams.
I look over to my right in the dark and my wife is there, lying on her side, breathing slowly. Well, just because I’m having a bad night’s sleep doesn’t mean she should: so I get out of bed as gingerly as I can, get my glasses and iPad off the night stand and head to the other side of the house.
I know that dreams, for me, are often my brain trying to work out various issues that I’ve shoved aside. I do worry about some of my friends; the one in my dream, for instance, is someone I worry about a lot. Because life has been hard on her, and there are days I’m not sure she’s going to make it.
She also likes to be kind of stylish and vintage, if her Instagram is any indication, so maybe that’s where that came from.
I try hard not to worry about people whose lives I cannot really impact, but I seem incapable of doing so; when I manage it, consciously, my subconscious takes over and does it for me.
Later, after getting back from the gym, there is a message from my friend. Her health situation is deteriorating. We text back and forth for about 10 minutes. Then she’s off to get some sleep, and I’m off to get ready for work.
In the shower, the shampoo is running over my eyes, so I shut them. With my eyes closed, I see her again, in a French grain field, under sunshine and tall clouds, wearing a red dress and pushing a red bicycle. She doesn’t know what’s coming, but then again, no one did, really.
And none of us do now.
I wonder if you ever knew
How much I loved and envied you;
Each move you made so effortless,
Your carefree natural blessedness
That I resented foolishly,
Despite how you believed in me.
For though my heart’s a universe,
It has black holes in it — and worse —
So now, upon the crest of time,
I see the separation
I caused by my inveterate
And weak self-immolation —
But silent now the river runs,
I view it, somber, gray and tired:
Forgiveness I can’t ask for, since
You’re now where none’s
Required
His girlfriend had a sister,
She’d join us at the pool;
That might have been pool water,
Or might have been his drool
I watched them every weekend,
And saw the slide begin;
It’s bad to mix up summertime,
Hot sisters, and
Sloe gin
I found myself missing the man today, because
Every once in a while, I forget he died.
If that sounds crazy to you, don’t worry,
One day you’ll understand.
Part of us never leaves the denial stage:
About grief, or anything else.
That’s part of what fiction is all about:
Saying “no” to reality, with gusto.
I remember once, going to his house
While he was grilling and telling stories.
His steaks weren’t great, but his stories
Were always sensational,
And always emotional.
I found myself missing the man today, because
Life is a very long canyon, and love
In an endless echo
in it
