Goodbyes

   "Now, your report card is out on the counter, and guess what?"
   "What?" he looked up at me from the boat he was repetitiously sinking into the water.
   "I even put stickers one it."
   "Stickers?  And the stickers will be for me?" he asked.
   "Well they're stuck to your report card, but you'll get to see all the things you did this session in swim with me.  So it's time to get out now, go see your Daddy and you can get your report card."
   A miracle happened then, for the first time in eight weeks, the adorable, spoiled little preschooler got out of the water without a fight. No coaxing necessary.
   The next half hour was empty due to a cancelled class, so my fellow lifeguard, Cal, and I began cleaning up the deck.  From across the pool he shouted my name.  I looked up to see a childish grin on his face, he was holding the frisbees I'd used in class (entertaining props, not just for preschoolers) and he wanted me to catch them.  I had to jump to catch the first, but the second came straight at me.  I smiled inwardly that it was sort of aimed at my face, funny how the creative life can spill over into "real life."
   "I'm heading out then," Cal said, his shift over.
   "See you later," I said, heading to the women's locker room to get out of my wet bathing suit.
   I got through the door and grabbed my towel before turning back.  I was glad to catch him still out on deck.
   "Or maybe I won't," I said.
   "What?"
   "I might not see you.  This is my last shift with you before I take off for the summer, and you're leaving in the fall."
   "Really?  Man... Nah, I'm sure I'll see you again."
   "Maybe," I said, "if you can't find a real job."
   He laughed.
   "That's a possibility.  But if I don't see you in the fall, I'll see you way later."  He made a big gesture with his arm, as if throwing a sloppy shot with a basketball.
   Reminded of the knowledge of our shared heritage, growing up in gospel-preaching churches, a smile spread across my face and I nodded.
   "Yeah.  Way, way later."
   "See you then," he said.
   We parted then, and I didn't see him again.  But it is good to know that I will, later on.

The sun still rises, and she's still here

How do you look at the love of your life and tell her, through her tears, this is where I leave you? How do you premeditate an earthquake, see the damage it will cause, and wreck it all anyways?

It's a great cliche, I can see that.  I didn't tell him that he meant a lot to me, not recently.  I didn't say thank you and now it's too late.  These are the types of things that people say in soap operas, worn little regrets that have been used so often, they no longer hold any meaning.

Until you go to what was his house and for a split second, wonder where he is.  What a stupid thing to think when you've gone there to bring flowers to his wife because he is irrevocably gone.  The mind does strange things to cope.

I am not enough for times like these.  I am less than what is needed, less than what is deserved.  I have been a peace-maker among my siblings, my friends - there's a puzzle piece in my soul that yearns to set things right.  I can't make this right.  In fact, I cannot even use these words that I've practiced, not in real life, not when it matters.  When face to face, all I can do is allow useless tears to roll down my cheeks.  Stupid, selfish, useless tears.

Chlorine mixed with tears

I walked down a winding lane today and watched a couple, grey-haired, kissing one another goodbye. Yet they could not be content with one kiss, but shared in three. I saw a mother holding the hand of a small boy, blonde curls framing his face and the remnants of lunch on one cheek. A messy little angel he was. I watched cars drive by, one after another after another and I wondered at their mysterious and complex lives. 

I thought to myself, but life is beautiful. There is so much to love and so many to be loved by. 

I am not angry with you, yet at times I am furious. The feeling that predominates is a greater weight in the region of my heart. You let me down, but more importantly, you let two curly-haired, dimpled little boys down. Little boys who looked out their window and dreamed of the far reaches of the galaxy. Little boys that I am supposed to protect, that I cannot protect from what you did to them. I did not have to bear such truths when I was their age. 

Why? I wish you could tell me. Was it isolation? The inevitability of oblivion that your world-view had convinced you of? Was it your health? What was the pain that you felt you had no other escape from?

And my biggest question... how could I have lifted this pain for you? What have I done?

I could have done more.  There is always that truth, that bitter seed of knowledge. Yet, I know it was not down to me. It was down to you and your burdens.

Was the weapon really lighter than the weight you bore? I am sorry and I am angry and my throat is much too tight.

You knew the God of creation, you saw Him in the mountains out your front window. I don't know how to pray for you, but I pray for the wife you left behind. And the two little boys and the little girls you hurt. Their precious tears mixing with chlorine, it is all much too terrible. I pray for it to become a gentler pain washed softer with time. 

I hope to see you again, I hope you are alright, and I hope.

I can't find my own words tonight, I will have to borrow another's. I don't think Leonard would mind.

THERE ARE SOME MEN

There are some men
who should have mountains
to bear their names to time.

Grave markers are not high enough
or green,
and sons go far away
to lose the fist
their father’s hand will always seem.

I had a friend:
he lived and died in mighty silence 
and with dignity,
left no book, son, or lover to mourn.

Nor is this a mourning-song
but only a naming of this mountain
on which I walk,
fragrant, dark and softly white
under the pale of mist.
I name this mountain after him.

(L. Cohen)