For the 21st of March (part 1 of 2)

I'm sleeping too soundly these days.  Never had a problem with it, dreaming, sleeping, not snoring, not a midnight snacker, or bathroom hound, or night sweats, terrors, too many nightmares, or not enough, well rested is one of the absolute constants of my life.  I don't do strung out well, I never have the same resolve after an all night tear, if an all night of everything my body can handle then I simply need to sleep the day away, so I can give it my all as ever.  Waking up in the dark always bothered me - age 11, black morning sky when the preparatory school van (white, made you feel like you were on a sports team no one cared about, or a mental ward no one bothered to acknowledge) would wait outside, and your mother'd be up with you, seeing the white blurry lights in the condos across the man-made canal in the florida pre sunrise, in the crisp, under furnished massive house he built for all of you, while you got ready and he slept, because he could.  Because he was his own boss, and taught you that doing what you love was half the battle in life.  I still hate getting out of bed before I am ready.  You were the exact same way, and I got it from you, my own personal daddy*.

I wake up, but I am not awake, and this reality I'm not all that aware of anymore (and I like it that way) slips away through the reeds, the sounds of the daytime far and far from me, will we talk in the night like we used to....it's around that time you start meandering into the living space, sitting there, on the easy chair I call my own now, one of two which I kept - this one was the one in which you died, the first time.  I'm groggy, and could use the bathroom (once in the night is alright) and when I come out, I sense your shadow there, in that chair, where you grabbed your head (so I am told), softly fell back from a very heavy and noisy nap, and regrettably your last words "I'm sick" had nothing to do with the sum of the words of your life.

So, what are we going to talk about tonight?  I know I've had a streak of unfettered violence in me since the days you went away, and perhaps feel my sense of comfort, and home is gone, and has never been the same.  But it's alright.  Your departure, in your choice and in all you built up in me before it, made me who I am in all her colours and I've got more sense of self that I know what to do with, and more than this world can probably take.  We were so alike, you and I, that I became convinced you were my son in another life, or twin brother.  But all that talk never really scratched your surface, as you were more of a roman in your thoughts about spirit.  You surely had some things to bring up about me - about what could be planned and thought out, and done successfully and that mistakes are there so you learn about them, and what they were there to teach you.

I know, there is no time in this dark and aromatic room while the moon sails around the window sky, to conceal or come to terms with all of this.  One word begets a thousand, one memory a projection of a million strands of possibilities and reasons for us all, and why we are the way we are.  Why you could never see yourself getting old, too old to build and blueprint and make, in your mind, and then through your hands.  We're going to have to go back in time and have our proper talk, the way we used to, from trains to cars and that.......

I wish you had become a history teacher or historian of any kind, your mind was ripe to succeed in this way.  But your heart fire needed actuality, the sweat and the long sun of the day, the beer drank afterwards which you always shared, the dig, the dirt the shovels, me getting carted around in your wheelbarrow.....leaves every fall, a pool filling every spring, was me.  Strange I never got to articulate these things until you were gone from this life.  I'm glad we're still talkin, and forgive me for being so out of it - I'm tired, I'm in between dreams and realities, and this time walking through my living room, by your chair, is tinged with wishing and conversations that still go on, and I;m glad they do.

So, we're going to catch up, you and I, daddy (you were the Old Man, and not the Daddy, which made a huge difference to my view of you and of the orchestration of your grand and individual lifetime), the train's pulling into the station and I'm about to cart my bag, in various stages, up the stairs, over the tracks, and through the high ceilings and overheated station to you, in the white car which sits outside my window, on my street, you in your oversized baseball cap waiting, and then the engine starts.......I know, I should go to bed.  We'll talk before the morning.  The mild, and lucid clouds kiss lifetimes across the sky and you're taking stock of it all as you always did.  You'll see me again soon, while you're dreaming up ways you could make yourself into a cowboy in between the smiling shards of night....

M. Lucia
*dfw