His baby, she wrote him a letter
Querido A,
The night went quick tonight: haircut, dinner, a little guitar. I wasn’t in the mood to play, but I wasn’t in the mood to not play, either. I’m ambivalent a lot these days. So I played my set list for open mic Friday and a couple others I’m working on—the song I wrote for you, and, get this: my first Dylan tune! I didn’t mean to. I thought it was a Byrds song; they were singing it. But when I looked it up, I learned the truth. So after all yourn and S’s efforts, I backed my way into a Dylan song. It spoke to me that day and it continues to. I’m ready to lay down my weary tune and rest myself ‘neath the strength of strings. Which of course means “play more guitar," right?
In a way, it does. It means “just be” to me. More living, less analysis, less trying all the damn time. I’m getting the message from all quarters. I had my time to speak; now it feels like it’s my time to be quiet, listen, and rest. “Rest” has never been such a tempting, beautiful word to me. On the one hand, I worry that I’m withdrawing from the world, and is that good for me? On the other, it seems like the only thing I feel I want and need to do, and that I wouldn’t want it if it weren’t the right thing for me, now. When it isn’t, I’ll want something else, I should think. Nothing is forever. God, don’t I know that only too well!
Love lasts. Love is forever; we are together even when we are apart. Our love is eternal. It’s the only thing that is. Which is good, but to hard to accept when the appearance of things is distance and impermanence. But I guess that the truth doesn’t require our comprehension. It can be true whether we acknowledge it or not.
I found your phone numbers in my little writing notebook when I was pasting a Rumi poem in the front cover. I remember writing them there, freezing and on the pay phone at camp. That was just a little over a year ago. It’s still so astonishing to me, Babe. I accept it because I must, but it’s like gravity. It affects everything I do but I still don’t understand it. My heart skipped a beat when I saw the numbers there. It hurt a little, for a moment. And I kissed the book as I shut it. It’s a strange thing to do, but this is all so strange, and it’s what I felt I wanted to do, so I did.
I added some Rumi to your envelope where I keep reminders and things that comfort me in regards to you and your passing. All kinds of treasures in there that have healed my heart a little, or broke it a little more. But that’s life, huh? I was thinking about this Rumi quotation I marked the other day:
“You’re crying. You say you’ve burned yourself.
But can you think of anyone who’s not
Hazy with smoke?”
That’s some wisdom, there. I don’t know anyone who hasn’t known their share of suffering. Most of the people I know are struggling now, and the rest had their turn in the past. I’m dealing with the loss of you and the imminent loss of Shorty. D is dealing with the loss of his wife and fighting cancer that will eventually kill him, if not this time. S is going on dialysis. T struggles constantly with mental illness. J lost both her parents within a week and deals with constant health problems. She just had a melanoma removed from her arm! It’s always something. Even you were an orphan and in the middle of a divorce. Nobody is exempt. And maybe that fact alone indicates something…what? I don’t even know how to explain what I mean. I guess if dealing with hardship is an integral and inevitable part of the human experience, and we can avoid it no more than we can avoid seeing the sun, maybe it’s less a tragedy than we realize, especially if we know that the end of this life is not THE END. But my adherence to such perspective is spotty and unreliable at best. I hope you know what I’m saying from my heart, even if my mind can’t get it out.
I miss you. And I love you more.
The girl left behind