| We are not at all equal made, nor is man’s heart complete to grasp life’s full parade. One child Tuesday born Richly, one child’s clothed; To be or not to be, their fate. Please explain this curse to me, Please shed some honest light |
My Dearest ________,
I awoke filled with the knowledge of you. It was not a dream.
I stood alone on a high balcony, which overlooked a great expansive, high-pillared hall. I looked down upon a large milling crowd of elegantly dressed people. I immediately sensed your presence among them, and then … I saw you—your exquisitely lovely face, the indescribable natural grace of your movements, your pensive gaze that spoke to my heart—and something else that I cannot know or say or dream away—an ineffable eternal knowledge that we share.
I longed to be with you, to look into your eyes, hear your voice, to touch and hold you. I knew at once, profoundly, that I had always loved you and that you had always loved me.
It was not a moment in time for time ceased or was replaced by you. I knew we had been joined forever, beautifully, in a transcendent, eternal truth. I simply knew. Yet I was unable to move or speak.
Dear beautiful soul, how I love and miss you so. You are my missing piece.
You moved slowly toward the far right exit of the great hall among those I somehow knew were your friends. You did not look my way; not once. I knew you would not, could not. I knew there was a reason for our separation, a reason of great import, though I knew not what it was.
Then, inside my longing I knew we would be together again—though not how or when. Yet I knew.
My gaze widened in an attempt to understand where I was—where we were. In that brief moment time returned. As the crowd moved slowly out of the great hall I strained to see if you were still there among them, but you were not. You were gone. Had you been there, it would have been impossible to miss you, for we are joined in an intimacy beyond all earthly experience or comprehension.
This is my love letter to you, my dearest one. I cannot know why we are separated in time and space. And why I was able to cross over ever so briefly to witness our love remains a mystery. But if by the same cosmic grace that touched me, you are permitted to read these words, know that any love I have experienced here was an anemic imposter compared to ours.
For now, I can only dream of being reunited with you … forever.
Your Robert
Note: I did awake one morning with this “knowledge.” I put ‘knowledge’ in quotes because even though the experience was far more powerful—profound—than any dream I have had, I realize that there could be other explanations. Still, given how little we really know about who, what, why, and even where we are, I don’t rule out the possibility that I had in fact been in the presence of my soulmate.
I am one among billions
of fish in the Sea.
I don't know why.
I swim with my kind
and go where they go
… that I do know.
We seek food to eat
and try to not be eaten
by those that would.
We all move as one.
We live to survive.
I don't know why.
I am one among billions
of fish in the Sea
… until I am not
Rage on, dear ones, to the end,
til’ bones and heart and soul clank
hard, roar loud at Gravesend!
Unleash yourself, make your play,
dance, prance—yack at the storm.
Race headlong in. Abuse the fray.
Do not be gentle with the Fates,
not soft or feckless, or alarmed
if you throw seven to their eight.
Sprint past what you have not.
Blind men have more than sight,
who rage on with what they’ve got.
Rage on, dear ones, in each new sun.
The hours watch, beg, and bet you on
as Gods descend to judge who’s won.
Today’s your day, the next a dream.
Now is where the magic’s made,
tomorrow—fickle Future’s scheme.
Be brave and bold, denounce your fear.
Mark the prize and then press on.
If you look back, you’ll still be here.
Rage on dear ones, with all your heart.
Your race is on, the time is short,
the bell has tolled, it’s time to start!
We didn't plant Jane like we did
—do with all our others. We honored
her wish and burned her body into ashes.
It's one thing to know about cremation
as something others do with the leftover,
evacuated evidence of a life once lived—
surely as meaningful as mine … or yours.
It was quite another to see Jane poured out
of a small unremarkable container onto
the damp, musty, busy forest floor behind
Herbie's house where her beloved cat
was buried. She wanted to be close to
her most loyal companion. I suspect the
sentiment was mutual.
I had known her my entire life. That means
always, from before the beginning of memory
to … when? To the pouring of the ashes?
To the precise end of our last conversation?
To the official moment of her death? – when
I was not there … could not make it in time.
To the end of memory … the end of caring?
When did I stop knowing her? Have I?
Others I've loved have died. We buried them,
placed them in airtight containers and put
them in the ground in fields of memories so
we could imagine that somehow they still
existed or would have evidence that they did.
An attempt to mitigate our loss? Disguise Death?
At least there was something left, a marker,
some words chiseled onto a piece of stone
that reassured us that we had loved them,
been loved by them … and it told others.
Jane was eight years older than I, my eldest sister.
That distanced us when we were children.
As I, tentatively, met my fellow kindergartners,
Jane was entering puberty. The distance between
five and thirteen is immense. But the distance
between fifty and fifty-eight is not much at all.
Most of us have been wrenched out of childhood,
shaped and cured by the vagaries of life, by then.
We became close friends, which is a very nice
thing for brothers and sisters. But nothing is free
in this life. That's what my mother told me.
"Nothing is free, Bobby. You'll see. There is a
price for everything."
Jane told me that she had always wanted to be a
dancer. It was a childhood dream of hers. She was
in her seventies when she told me that. And she
had other dreams that never came true. All those
years and I never knew these things about my
sister.
She wasn't bitter, just accepting—perhaps
resolved. I cried a little inside for the things she
wouldn't allow herself to cry about. Jane didn't
cry easily even when she was whipped with
the Cat-Of-Nine-Tails. It was about principles.
Jane could be stubborn.
When her son, Billy, poured her ashes onto the
dark, damp ground I thought, "Is that it? Is that
all that is left of my sister? Where are her dreams,
her laughter, her sorrow? She hasn't finished yet!"
Though she said she had. "Where are the myriad
of things of a life lived? Where is the intelligence
I saw in her eyes, the knowledge unique to her?
Where is my dear sister? How can I love her now?
How can she love me?"
Wait, we don't even have a marker! But then
markers don't last forever, either.
Mother was right. Nothing is free in this life.
John Offenbacher
played soccer
everyday he could
in his childhood.
Didn’t do much else at all
but kick a ball
until he met a girl
named Shirl.
That changed everything,
even made him sing.
He didn’t do it well
but he couldn’t tell
and Shirl didn’t care.
She liked his hair.
They got hitched
and now they’re rich
with a little boy Offenbacher
who plays soccer.
That’s all …