I’ve lost many friends through the years and now the times are compressing faster than my poor heart can keep up. John fell and hit his head in when he stumbled in Newport News. He didn’t do the prudent thing. He died a few days later after a splitting headache. Gill live on a barrier island in Florida. He died from being old and lasted a long time. I stopped to see him in the fall of 2011 to make an amends. He was gracious. Don Spratlin didn’t wear his seat belt in 1960. That ended it all for him. I grieved and continued all these years. He lies under an old live oak tree in Hampton, Virginia. Marty Cross crashed his car on the Maine Turnpike around the same time. Marty with eyes as blue as the oceans we traveled. Barbara, the mother of my older children, passed last April. My high school sweetheart. We had an acrimonious divorce and life thereafter. Still the sadness and grief attended the farewell. I’ve lost clients from my caseloads at methadone clinics and half-way houses. They were sad as well. Not expected until the first few and then it became part of the job. Losing people I really hoped would get better.
Ben, and Rick, and Bill, and I. We all survived through youth and middle age. Time is getting short and did for them. I needed to write to empty my mental pockets of the loose change of love and caring I held for all three during our loving times. Here is what they look like or how I remember them the best.
THE POETRY OF GRIEVING
I’m way too high for mine or anyone’s comfort,
My head has nothing above,
I’m afraid of height and I can’t stand wide open spaces,
Standing on a wire strung across the gap between the
Twin Towers which no longer exist.
This long, long pole I hold is no comfort,
I just don’t want to be here by myself,
But there is nothing I can do to ward off
The situation,
Woe is fucking-me.
There was a time when I sensed
That I was in company,
Others exhibited the same insanity,
The same quiet desperation of
Being Alive.
I was able to hide in the crowd,
Not fully a volunteer in the effort to
Stick my head up,
Leave me be; don’t call on
Me!
Aging does wonders for cowards,
Living is not for the weak,
Growing old likewise,
Brown spots, crusts, unsteadiness,
It all sucks rocks; forget it.
I won’t grow up,
I won’t go to school,
He has the right idea,
I wish, I wish, I wish,
In one hand.
Ben sort of spoke Espanol,
He was a thinker,
But not a lover,
He smoked and never
Got over it.
Rick tamed lions and dragons,
He put them on canvas,
What a nice guy to sit with,
I saw him go,
Saw him go.
Bill and I were on a submarine,
He was a hippie before they were,
Bill could learn anything,
Walked his own path,
Stayed on it until he felt too tired.
All of us were walking that wire,
Strung between the Twin Towers,
Which no longer exist,
With those long poles,
That were supposed to comfort us.
Agoraphobia is my cup of hemlock,
Here I am drinking it by the gallon,
Ben in Espanol is Ben-ha-meen,
Rick is Reek,
Bill es Guillermo.
Jesus, Ben. You stopped,
What the holy hell?
And Rick, we were just getting
Restarted,
Bill, you felt tired; I know.
My three old pals all done,
Took off on me and left me
Holding the pole
Which is supposed to
Comfort me.
It just doesn’t work that way.
We have safety in numbers
Safety to bump into each other,
To brush up against to validate
The similarity.
I feel alone now,
Just a few friends left to really
Talk to,
Talk to with common ground
And shared history.
I am carrying more and more memories now,
Not used to so much,
Bitter sweet,
Bitter and
Sweet.
G. M. Goodwin
15 September 2017
Playing Fair and Being Kind 