Family Portrait

The first thing I noticed my first time in that house on a Friday night in 1988 was the family portrait hanging in the kitchen.

There were six of them in that family picture. 

I suppose I envied that frame. 

I never had a father so naturally, I've always been reserved around other people's fathers.  At that point in my life, I had never eaten a meal at a table with more than one other person.  I never had to learn to share, be it; toys or affection because I had no siblings. 

My comfort level is and has always been limited. 


First time in that house, that family asked me to stay for dinner.  So, I did.  I said nothing during that meal. 

It was an idyllic setting.  Table set, all the basic food groups in separate dishes to be portioned out to each person.  Prayer before the first bite.  And each family member talking with and to each other. 

I think my hands were trembling the whole time. 


Years went by.  At that point, I could walk into that house without knocking at any hour of the day or night.  And so, I did.  I had my own key, in fact. 

Thousands of meals later and my hands still trembled when I ate with them.

I could write out all these tiny details that still stick with me today.  I could talk about the sheer intimidation I felt even when words of kindness or concern were directed at me. 

None of those details matter. 

They don't know this but they were my family.  A lot of who I am now can be traced to them. 


The older brother whom invited me over for the first time, God bless his soul, befriended me quickly during my junior year of high school.  We were inseparable from that friday night until he left us in 2003.  I could mention how complicated he was or his personal struggles.  I could point fingers in many directions and attempt to dissect what happened. 

None of those details matter.

Last time I wandered the halls of that home, that family portrait still hung in the kitchen.  It had been relatively updated with current hair cuts, better clothes and of course, each were a little older than the original family portrait. 


The one and only time I have ever seen a grown man cry was at the funeral.  He was the silent, stoic and unaffectionate type of father.  Known in many affluent circles for his generosity and charity which his career had enabled him to pursue, he was a humble man.  I believe in my twenty plus years of seeing that man on a weekly basis, we rarely spoke.  I was intimidated by his title of father and he probably believed I was a bad influence on his sons.  Or at least, that is what I imagined. 

If you've ever seen a grown man break down; a man you believed was invincible to the worst this life has to offer... If you have witnessed someone so strong become so fragile...

Well, I isolated myself in the foyer of that church after the service.  Off in the distance, he was barely able to stand.  This six foot six giant of a man wept uncontrollably.  My thoughts raced.  My supposition was he was bearing the blame for his son's departure.  As, was I.  As, were many.

He slowly came my way and hugged me.  Twenty plus years of knowing him and he said more to me during that hug than all the years previously. 

His wife, turns out, took on the role of stoic parent.  She greeted everyone and thanked the hundreds of people who were there.  She smiled.  She held back her tears.  She was grace personified.


It's been twenty seven years since the first time I set foot into that home and caught glimpse of that family portrait. So much has changed.


I'm on the phone earlier today with my own mother.  She's doing her usual manipulative song and dance about her struggles.  I sort of just tune her out because she sounds like Charlie Brown's teacher whenever she speaks to me. 

While she was wah wah wahing on the other end of the phone, deja vu or a sense of irony hit me and I laughed.

Those details don't matter.

What matters, I suppose, is family.

I used to envy that frame that held together that 1988 family portrait.

Now, I am starting to appreciate my own.




Today, he would be turning 45 years old.  I could end this with some cliches or usual platitudes that should be self-evident.  But then, I, too, would sound like Charlie Brown's teacher.

Of all the things, my best friend taught me, introduced me to, embraced me with.... Out of every life changing, character buliding lesson learned from his life and passing...

Letting me be a part of his family was his greatest deed.

God bless his soul. 

Goldfish

Lonely goldfish swimming in your bowl.  Safe from the line of a fishing pole.  Who asked you for complete control?  We all want freedom or at least, parole.

It was the end of september if I remember when I told myself... you're finally at peace and released from your cell.  Call it freedom from your living hell.  In the end, all the moves we make are parallel.  

Told myself it was meant to be.  You're lonely with or without my company.  I used to tell myself you're addicted to a certain kind of sadness and addiction brings some kind of balance.  Found myself drowning in denial.   Just like you, off on some tangents.

Lonely goldfish, you seem so carefree.  What are you thinking when you look at me? 

October came and nothing was the same.  Told myself, its best to take the blame.  A visceral reaction seemed so unfitting.  A cerebral infraction of the brain.  Told myself, time will be the healer.  Lonely goldfish has a name.

I used to wonder about the heavens above.  Found myself conflicted about love.  Angels and devils seemed like a myth; something to blame when we go through things like this. Debating what it means to feel whole. I even pondered the notion of a loving God and if we really have a soul.

I found truth when

lonely goldfish was found floating in his bowl.


 

The Shoebox

There are no friendly ghosts.  Just angry ones. 

I ran to the home of the girl who was raped the night before.  This debate of what to say played in my head.  It was last year, let's move on, I thought.  Then I realized, it all occured after midnight.

I could have married her, I sometimes think.
I should have, at the very least, kissed her.

And the image of what she looked like has been erased from my mind.  She was taller than me.  Not in some awkward way but more model-like.  She was beautiful; that I know. 

A few years later, she gave birth to twins and only the twins left that hospital.  I heard it was a brain aneurysm during labor.  They tried to warn her months before.  Then, they tried to save her.  She is probably the best mother I've ever known.  That could be construed as hyperbole.  That's not my intention.

Those twins; they're out of college.  They've got their mother's character and good genes. 

I wouldn't mind a few minutes with them to recollect but I don't remember much; just an unfortunate crime and a shoebox of handwritten letters she mailed to me.  She only lived two miles away. 

And those letters; they seem a lifetime ago written to someone almost like me. 

I read them for the first time in twenty eight years.  I didn't even know I had them.  They just kind of reappeared during a random search for something else.  My first instinct was to hold one of the letters up to my nose as if I would recapture a familiar scent. 

Then I read her affectionate words.

Of course, there was a lump in my throat.  That's natural.  But I couldn't determine if it was because those words came from her or if it was simply nice to be reminded that I am loveable.  Even if it was what seems a lifetime ago. 

I started to ask myself:  why do we seem to always dismiss those younger than us?  Why do we think that being in love is some adult thing and everything before adulthood is just a meaningless crush or phase? 

My younger self would resist this belief that my current self knows better than him.  I may be wiser now but I'm more careful, less carefree, less intense, more guarded, less affectionate, and more cynical.  I think my younger self was more loveable than my current self because I loved with less judgment and more vulnerability.

I look at the first letter on top of several in this dusty old shoebox and it's dated September 14th, 1987. 
Two years before I would last see her.  Three and a half months before that unfortunate crime.  Four years before giving her twins the gift of life.  Four years before she left us. 

And twenty eight years before she would remind me that not all ghosts are angry.






 

Farewell, Mr. G

We can try to prepare ourselves for the inevitable.  We look down upon the faces of the sick, of the dying, of those who are now not even given a puncher's chance to make it and we tell ourselves we will be ready. 

Ask anyone who has lost a parent or a sibling or a partner or a friend in a long drawn out goodbye how they felt when it was all over.  They'll tell you.

Even the least deluded of people cannot fully prepare themselves for the inevitable. 

11:45 yesterday morning, this theory was put to test.

We all knew Mr. G's time was running out.  Hell, he knew it.  Last Christmas, he was full of life and joy as his loved ones spent the holiday with him.  Everyone in that room knew it was his last Christmas.  It's just a matter of time, we said.  Of course, that's true with all of us. 

When I receieved the phone call yesterday, my heart skipped a beat.  There was a lump in my throat.  Really, I couldn't even talk.  It wasn't surprising he finally let go.  Despite failing health and his lack of will to go on, it still smacked all of us like a ton of bricks in the face. 

The inevitable became reality and it felt like it came out of nowhere.

It seems silly to mourn a man in his nineties; a man I barely knew.  A part of me thinks mourining is just a self-serving word for honoring.  Mourning implies how I am affected; how all of us left behind feel.  Honoring makes it about him and the life well lived he led.

So, despite this selfish need to mourn a man I barely knew yet impacted me in ways I can never fully articulate, I just want to honor Mr. G.


The older a man gets, the more he begins to sound like Morgan Freeman reading a mad lib.  He may not be making much sense but damn, is he calming.  Thats how it was during a conversation with Mr. G.

He was a kind man of exceptional character.  He fought in World War II and was married close to sixty years before his wife had to leave.  From the day she left this temporary world, he spoke of her in present tense.  His love for her only grew each day and the mere mention of her name would invigorate him.  He couldn't wait to see her again yet didn't want to give up on living because that would have disappointed her. 

Mr. G would have made her proud despite these last few months.

Last week, I was fortunate enough to see him.  His skin resembled an old elephant; grayish blue and leathery.  His urine was the color of Guiness.  He could barely speak.  He just laid in bed as each body organ, one by one, started to shut down.

The last image of him I will forever hold dear was the moment he feebly reached out his hand to his son whom sat by his side over the last few weeks.  His son grabbed his hand and they prayed together. 

And a single tear rolled down Mr. G's cheek.


When someone leaves us, the last thing we want is to be immersed into a sea of cliches.  He's in a better place.  Maybe.  At least, his suffering is gone.  Obviously.  Now, he can be with his wife for eternity.  Specualtion. 
I'm sorry for your loss.  Our loss.

The world lost a great man.  One of the last from the greatest generation this country has ever known.


It was an honor to know him.


Farewell, Sir.

Monkey See

When a believer in nothing leaves us, does he come face to face with Jesus?  Does extended grace allow one to plead their case or left to chase the one who deceived us? 

Who strips away the arrogance and chips apart the evidence to recognize a creator?  If a believer in nothing could come back, would they become a martry and crusader?

Monkey see, monkey do.  Truth becomes merely taboo. 

Who's the sinner?  Who's the saint?  Same old problem, new complaint.  Without hope, there are no consequences.  There are no good deeds, no offenses. 

Believer in nothing, still holding on.  Barely afloat, his ship is gone. 

Monkey see, monkey do.  You go down with me, I drown with you. 
Believer in nothing will not be rescued.

Believer in nothing has nothing to gain and everything to lose. 


Monkey see, monkey do.  Free wills' residue.

dear atom bomb

fearless fetus waiting in the womb
skull crushing instrument arrives to make room
while all the people argue over right and wrong
i'm going to write a letter to the atom bomb

dear atom bomb,
please come soon
fearless fetus is not safe in the womb

narcissistic emperor sitting on his throne
pugilistic martyr fighting all alone
orwellian nightmare keeps the saints up at night
dear atom bomb
how did wrong become right?

intelligent fool says faith is not enough
what is evident cannot be seen with eyes wide shut
dear atom bomb
wake us before we self destruct

intelligent fool doesn't see the artist
behind a sky painted blue
intelligent fool doesn't recognize the perfect order
encompassing me and you

dear second coming
please be true

Open Door Policy

Rumor has it, they're separated.

I heard it from a mutual friend.  Coincidentally, not ironically, he knew before me.  I suppose there are many reasons for this.  He's done a better job at staying in touch with all those people from what seems a life time ago.  He hasn't done that one thing I am guilty of:   disappearing.

My first reaction incidentally was a quick ego riddled unspoken I told you so.  I saw this coming before they married.  I imagined this day even when I became an ordained minister for the sole purpose of uniting them under God.  But, I also, hoped I would be wrong.

He's fallen off the face of the map, the mutual friend tells me.  No one can find him.  No one will say anything about what happened or his whereabouts. 
The mutual friend adds, Should we be worried?

No, I reply.

I wasn't in the mood to explain how he is to the mutual friend.  No one knows him better than me.  And I don't say that to brag or to remind him all I have been through with this old friend.

I doubt he will ever surface again.  Reconciliation or not.  He's the kindest man I have ever known.  He wears his heart on his sleeve even to his own detriment. 

I think about him all the time.  Our last conversation took place about five years ago and it lasted six hours in the middle of the night as his wife was out of town.   Every conversation I've ever had with him, I've treated it as if it would be our last one.  And it's because; well, it doesn't matter.



Just over a week ago, I was sitting at a three legged desk in a gritty hotel room. taking inventory of my life.  I found out who my real friends are.... 

Nothing replaces old friends.

With old friends, regardless of time in between conversations, the door is always open.


Rumor has it, he's disappeared. 

There is so much I want to say to him.  Probably nothing different than the last time we spoke or all the times before that.

During our last conversation, we were discussing the passing of an old friend.  He couldn't make the funeral so I filled him in on all the details.  More specifically, how the church was overflowing with people.  I mentioned that three school buses showed up with high schoolers whom he coached and taught. They all came to pay their final respect.

There was silence on the other end of the phone. 

I knew he was crying because that's what he always did.  He's always been a big crybaby. 

When he regained his composure, he said, It's just so ironic.

I knew what he meant.


I will never understand why some of us become more introverted as we grow older.  I don't know why some of us isolate ourselves when we need people the most.  It always seems those who are most loved are the same people who remain the most distant.

I wish I knew how to change that.

I love the open door policy afforded to us by old friends. 

It's a shame we rarely use it.