That is what remember about our times together.
I had a bowl yesterday and it never seems as good though it always reminds me of those times we met, when a young man with an idea found a wise, listening ear and an agent to make it become reality.
My life was changed as a result, moving from the lonely city to communal wilderness, to dreams fulfilled, to love found.
I will be forever grateful to you, my friend.
I do not remember the exact words we spoke. But I will never forget your thoughtful presence over a steaming bowl of split pea soup.
Yesterday I took six boxes of memories to the thrift store, filled with the remnants of your time here.
Comics. Superheroes. Books. Model kits. CDs.
Only things, but each infused with a memory of where it came from and the thoughts in my mind when I got it for you.
Some brought a brief smile to my lips, tinged with sadness that now they are just another jumble of generic toys in cardboard boxes.
Tomorrow another father will buy one of these things for his boy, in his heart the same hope I felt long ago that the purchase will be appreciated, at least for a little while, until it too finds its way into a big box filled to overflowing with memories.
the circling conversation in my mind of endless run-on sentences spins around like a nauseating carnival ride with a passenger of one returning to subjects old and bruised and battered until I stumble through the day sick and dizzy from the pounding wind of the circling conversation in my mind
Christmas lights look best at night.
In the day, I walk beside deflated remnants of holiday cheer and endless strings of wires and bulbs empty of bright.
Then darkness falls and the world becomes a magical place, shining with hope and expectation.
One evening several years ago, I arrived at my cottage in the mountains of West Virginia to find a strange message on my answering machine.
Seeing the red blinking “1” on the clunky analog box, I pressed the “play” button. The mini-cassette inside rewound with a screech and then the message began to play.
“Do you have a place to stay?”
Well, needless to say, I was confused. And touched. The caller was no one I knew, yet he seemed to be in desperate straits.
That week I had been working on an accapella song, reflecting on the signs of my power that I carry around in my pocket every day.
The song seemed to fit with the stranger’s request on the answering machine. So I turned on my tape recorder, repeated the message several times, and then sang the lyrics to the simple melody in my head.
The answering machine died long ago. The song has been stored on my hard drive for years.
The stranger who called? I did try to call him back that evening long ago, but I was unable to reach him.
I do hope he found a place to stay.