A letter to an old friend.
Today I turn 37…
It’s been a full year since I first contributed to this intangible easel. I have spent much a tumultuous effort inside this quagmire, trying to make my ideas count for something. I don’t know if I’m better or worse for wear because of it, but I’m still here. This space has become a living, breathing entity… neurotransmitters firing on all cylinders. Something created by a brave soul—one that I have loved, admired, criticized, argued with, looked to, hurt, been hurt by, stood by, walked away from, punched, been punched by. Someone who I look to as a beacon; a man capable of changing the way this world looks at itself. The way that the world looks at the world. Good luck with your endeavors, my brother—you certainly have a marvelous foundation on which to construct. Precious few are as equipped to carry this unwanted torch as you are. I often think of you handling your pain, while I handle my pain. You sitting in your office, me sitting in mine. Thinking, concentrating, remembering, feeling, writing, expressing, seeing, hearing, dreaming, craving, wanting, needing… all for him. Just as I am. In parallel. Tears streaming. An occasional hint of laughter slicing through the sheet of pain that hovers over like a blanket—sometimes allowing itself to be removed in the name of living, sometimes revealing its presence in the name of hiding from those who go on living. Omnipresent.
David. Beloved.
It almost seems like it’s a curse word… I don’t like to say it aloud anymore. Yet, I say it to myself all the time. It rings over and over in my head. I know that you say it frequently. Perhaps in attempt to bring him back, perhaps trying to channel his presence, perhaps to simply convince your mind that he still exists on this physical plane. But he doesn’t. Where does that leave us… the ones that truly remember him, that spent days upon months upon years speaking with him, shaping him, seeing him so much that it became routine and under-appreciated, the way family tends to. What do we do?
I was lucky enough to take a trip to Florida last month. I couldn’t help but think back on the memories we had: walking through the parks, waiting in line for rides, staring at girls… I thought about how I would have tried to convey these thoughts to him. He would have said, “Yeah, Jay… good times, good times.” Never taking more than three seconds to truly reflect on the history that exists between us. How lucky you were to have him as a brother and me to have him as a cousin. How lucky he was to have you as a brother and me as a cousin. How much we confided in each other and the way that everything seemed to make a little more sense when we were together… the way the world seemed to stand still when it was just us…
The bond.
I wonder if you even remember those days. Revisionist history becomes very easy to digest. Sometimes I don’t think I remember them clearly enough either. I rack my mind trying to load up the right ball, but it mysteriously vanishes, and the thought becomes a distant memory. One barely worth discussing. Set adrift. The amount of history that exists between us could fill volumes. But so much gets cast aside and becomes lore, tucked away somewhere in the annals of existence. Reduced to a mere expression, a glance, a feeling… the product of lost history. An ever-present reminder that memory fades, but true belief never does. It’s always there.
I guess one thing we always shared was belief—belief in the plain old art of believing. Never a clear path but belief that, in the end, it would turn out to be a bouquet of roses. Wherever we landed. Together or not, I do believe we always had a belief in one another. Maybe because from the very beginning, we were believed in…
I know it needs no explanation, but I’m sorry I haven’t attended the LIPF events. You expressed your genuine desire to have me attend the masquerade. I honestly planned on it, but those plans fell through, and I spent the night wishing I had planned better and was in New York instead of CT. While you were holding up your end of the bargain, I sat at home feeling sorry for myself and went to bed early. My loss.
I can’t promise I’ll ever attend an event. Perhaps one day I will. I want it. I want it like I want him back. But I don’t know if I’ll ever be there… I’m there in spirit, I guess. You think he is?
I had a dream recently. I was lying next to a baby in a bed. I was lying next to this child, trying to sooth it and bring it back to life, but the attempt seemed futile. It had been six days since the baby had breathed. I remained firm in my belief that the baby would live, despite the circumstances. Eventually, the baby started breathing, and I called to you to come see the child. When I looked at the baby, it was the face of David. A baby’s body with the face of a young Dave, maybe a year or two. Bugged.
Second dream, JTD. The acronym symbolizes three old friends… much more, of course, but friends to the very end indeed. The name stretches across the facing like a defining light. Esoteric by nature. An indelible imprint sewed into the fabric of the family cloth. Three dudes with nothing to lose.
Except everything. The D is still etched in the marble in the third column of truth. Year after year, the weather pounds at the insignia, but it remains strong… capable of weathering the storm and standing the test of time, even if one of its founders no longer graces the top floor of our building. Even if the thousands upon thousands of rough drafts remain balled up in the corner, no janitor to remove them from the carpet. Just two thinkers deep in thought, each in their own office. Doors shut. Probably won’t say goodbye at closing time either. One will shut his door, look at the name etched in the door opposite, and walk away. Expressionless. Knowing the man behind the closed door hears the other door shut, pauses… and quietly goes back to work. Business as usual. Each knowing that the spoken word evaporates; the written one remains as the true work of the man.
This time, Gram isn’t here to approve. Gramp isn’t there to pat our heads and say, “Way to go!” Elaine isn’t there to pick you up and bring you back to Milford. Tasha doesn’t stand at the end of the rug looking for affection. There’s no fluffer-nutters, oodles of noodles, or strawberry quick.
This time, it’s just you and me.
Silent. Steady.
We could have hired outside the firm, but no new candidates applied.
As one of the chosen steps outside, he is greeted to an onslaught of people, each trying to speak with him and gain his wisdom. Each understanding that the path to his understanding is most hard and that they should tread lightly. Showing him the utmost respect. He steps into the crowd with a hesitant smile, one designed to inspire yet shield the colossal pain… one that is most confident in his task, yet most weary underneath the heft of it. New characters do exist within the business. Each filling in portions of the existing void admirably, attempting to provide solace in their own way. They stand beside him, looking for their great to speak and inspire with his words of wisdom…
As he prepares to speak, he looks up to the third floor of the JTD building. He sees the light on in the office.
He addresses the crowd—as a sky full of lighters emerges…
