Its been ten
days since dad died. The first days were not that bad,
I explained when people asked. Just wait, everyone warns. It gets weird. And its true. Some call it magical thinking. My days among the living are spent with the
memories and the constant presence of those who are no longer here. Sometimes
hours and days are busy and you don’t think of them. And then reminders, of shoelaces we learned
to tie, stories, trips, fights, missed phone calls trip me up. Here, the dead are as much a part of the living
as those who are with us, sometimes more. The shadows of the room, the stories, the very
gestures of the everyday are connected with people and things no longer here. Quiet moments are times to reflect on those
last moments when they were with us in the realm of the living, sitting in a
hospital bed, before they shuffled off into some other place in the realm of
the ghosts and memories, beyond our comprehension.
Dad, where he spent way too much time toward the end. |
April 5th,
this Saturday marked the tenth anniversary of my friend Keith’s death, who died the week before
Ester n 2004. Cylar and I hung out for a
few years before his death, doing activism, drinking, interviewing, and telling
stories. I
was asking him questions and he was mentoring me. We sharing in a practice of friendship. Some days we rumbled through his files
together, pulling out pictures which would be part of supporting an untold
story of housing and AIDS activism. Friday night, I posted one of those photos
of Cylar on facebook.
Cylar leading the parade. |
His partner
and Housing Works co-founder Charles King posted a comment. “Keith
not only continues to inspire, but he lives on through the lives of all the
people and causes he touched. I still miss him. But I am counting on him
dancing his wild and crazy dance when we finally end this damned epidemic.”
harry weider, keith cylar by Michael Wakefield. |
Such
a ghost dance opens space for the living and the
dead to share common ground. Many AIDS activists
I know talk about such a space.
The next day,
I pulled out my old housing works compassion without action equals death t shirt
from the days right after he died on Easter week in 2004. I’ll never forget walking into work that Monday
morning a decade ago and dahlia telling me that Keith
was gone.
I went home
and hung out with number one, who was just a year old at the time.
Ten years
later, she is eleven and now has a younger sister. Mom out of town, we would
spend the weekend making the rounds of the city, navigating the quirky emotional
terrain of the city with a dad still reeling.
We went to
hang with Stanley Aronowitz for the first of a ten week class on Lukacs and Gramsci. The room at the Brecht Forum was full of
elders cast from Reds at the Brecht. While
elders and mentors such as this are still around, i might as well see them for
who knows how much more time they’ll be around.
The girls
brought their skateboards and rode up and down the hall during the talks, periodically
interrupting to remind me we had a lunch scheduled with mom.
And so I excused
myself and we went to meet mom across town at the Morgan Library on Madison.
Mom had been
leading her students through a tour of illuminated manuscripts. She took us on a mini tour, knowledge teeming
out of her, like the others at the Brecht forum.
Finishing our tour, we strolled through the prints of the little prince, whose author Antoine de Saint-Exupéry flew away never to return.
We talked
about Dad a bit and walked up to our favorite bookstore on 42nd and
then to Bryant Park where we enjoyed the sun.
Later that night, we played bluegrass until
late, jamming to goodbye anthems, So Long its Been Good to Know You and When
the roll is calling from Yonder.
The prophetic words of the gospel hymn describe a thin line between this word and another.
The prophetic words of the gospel hymn describe a thin line between this word and another.
When the
trumpet of the Lord shall sound, and time shall be no more,
And the morning breaks, eternal, bright and fair;
When the saved of earth shall gather over on the other shore,
And the roll is called up yonder, I’ll be there.
And the morning breaks, eternal, bright and fair;
When the saved of earth shall gather over on the other shore,
And the roll is called up yonder, I’ll be there.
Refrain
When the roll, is called up yon-der,
When the roll, is called up yon-der,
When the roll, is called up yon-der,
When the roll is called up yonder I’ll be there.
When the roll, is called up yon-der,
When the roll, is called up yon-der,
When the roll is called up yonder I’ll be there.
And later we jammed to I’ll fly
away:
Some glad morning
when this life is o'er,
I'll fly away;
To a home on God's celestial shore,
I'll fly away (I'll fly away).
Chorus
I'll fly away, Oh Glory
I'll fly away; (in the morning)
When I die, Hallelujah, by and by,
I'll fly away (I'll fly away).
2.
When the shadows of this life have gone,
I'll fly away;
Like a bird from prison bars has flown,
I'll fly away (I'll fly away)
Chorus
3.
Just a few more weary days and then,
I'll fly away;
To a land where joy shall never end,
I'll fly away (I'll fly away)
I'll fly away;
To a home on God's celestial shore,
I'll fly away (I'll fly away).
Chorus
I'll fly away, Oh Glory
I'll fly away; (in the morning)
When I die, Hallelujah, by and by,
I'll fly away (I'll fly away).
2.
When the shadows of this life have gone,
I'll fly away;
Like a bird from prison bars has flown,
I'll fly away (I'll fly away)
Chorus
3.
Just a few more weary days and then,
I'll fly away;
To a land where joy shall never end,
I'll fly away (I'll fly away)
“They are
wanting to fly away because it sucks here,” noted one of the banjo players, as
we riffed on bluegrass, memories, southern sensibilities, and the songs marking
that luminal space between here and elsewhere.
Sunday, the
planet was waking up. We made our way to
Judson even thought Sunday school has been more and more about god and religion
which worries number two a great deal. But it wasn’t too long before enjoying lunch
and a trip out for garden clean up and work days. The whole city seemed alive with artists,
gardeners and everyone else enjoying the sunshine.
Back home,
number two asked if she could listen to the sea from the conch shell I have sitting
on my bookshelf. The image of my Dad and
I eating lunch in Galveston Tx and Dad purchasing that silly shell from years
ago came to mind. You never know when
those silly memories are going to be some of the last you have with them. The finality
of these moments, the sudden period mark on a memory is jarring. Number two and
I sat with our ear to the shell, listening to the seagulls from Galveston, the
water hitting the beach.
After dinner,
the three of us cleaned up, putting out the fermenting food waist compost to
decompose in the dirt.
it’s to save
the world, explained number two, recognizing the cycles of regeneration around
us.
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