You turn everything off, and everything gets real quiet and stops, and you’re not so much laughing anymore and you’re not really doing anything at all. It’s just quiet again, and you can hear the dog across the street and the slight drip-drip-drip of the faucet, but everything else is just still, still and quiet and low again, like fog in the night.
Dirty Projectors - About to Die
It is cold outside, cold and quiet and the rain is just now starting to come down in soft hellos. Quiet, still – only the sounds of passing cars and cat cries in the distance. It is night, a chill night, a lonely night. And so you sit on the sidewalk thinking – always thinking – waiting for the hard of a rain to show itself, or just waiting. And maybe it’s because you’re waiting that you’re sitting there alone, or maybe it’s because you’re waiting that you’re wondering if there’s anything worth waiting for at all. The streetlight flickers. The bushes twitch. And an expecting breeze crosses your face, shakes you from your nonsense.
I remember a time where I would write letters to no one in particular. Letters of hope, letters of longing. Letters written only to mask an inherent desire to be worthwhile, if only someone would be there to read them. They would be written and hidden and covered in this and that, with words only a few would recognize and only a few could conjure any real sense of meaning. There was something about a pen on paper, something about that, that seemed distant yet familiar…hopeful even. Some kind of meaning that would be lost into the nothingness.
And so recall your father and the hands that made beauty from death. A wilted tree fashioned into a smooth heart, a threadbare sweater made new with a needle and love to keep your mother warm on cold nights. On nights like tonight. Some kind of man, he was, always making the best of things when you thought the best of things couldn’t be.
But the rain still lingers and the cement is cold, still, underneath you and the Earth and the dirt and the things that will always be there. Small lines of water finding their ways to other places. A vague sheen across the neighbors yard. Things coming into being, things fading into the night. The rain stalls and so do you. Still waiting for that wash, that something that will turn your death into beauty.
I was talking to myself as people crossed and I walk on the avenue.
As the lights would pass my eyes I though of time and all the things we’d never knew.
The sun came up along the shore, the love of life was shared and my eyes found you.
And we would go into the sun,
And we would share all of the things that made us one.
The woods and the stars collide.
But know the that ill be by your side.
Into the wild, into the fear, into the night.
Fran was good with plans. Plans and plans. Notes made with fountain pens, pop-up reminders of moons and Fests and woodland adventures. Plans, they scared me. Mostly, I think, because I was afraid of breaking them, forgetting them, forgetting and letting people down. I wasn’t keen on making them. Ever. But she liked plans, thrived on them and, after a spell, so did I. I could count on her to keep our aim straight away. It was nice, refreshing. But it was intimidating, too. She had her shit together. She had plans. What did I have?
“Camping on Friday, yeah?”
“You get the wood, beer, ice. I’ve got the rest.”
We spent a weekend hopping around breweries in the southern parts, drinking up the sun. It was early on in our time and I remember thinking how crazy it all was, how smooth and wonderful and simply easy such a new thing could be. It was scary. It wasn’t planned.
And so now it’s months later and I’m wondering if I should have made those plans just as well. Plans for hotels and plans for Golden Gate. Maybe I wouldn’t be doing those things alone. Maybe I should have planned for the longer things, not been afraid. I don’t know. I should have. I wanted to. I was never good with plans. Fran was. I miss her plans. Plans and plans and plans.