Saturday, October 22, 2005
This is for me, and for someone who is missed today.
I was enraptured the moment I set eyes on him. I think it was my first visit to En Rapport, a local coffee house that would eventually become my home away from home - our hangout. Long brown hair fringed eyes which had a light and life in them and had me even before "hello." The cape he sported, along with the rest of his wardrobe had the hint of an era populated with musketeers, damsels in distress and castle fortresses. Oh, how he swept me away.
He was a poet, a thinker, a writer, a lover, my first, and struggled with his own inner demon-haunted hell. Of course I fell head over heels in love. Through the scope of years, which can bring greater understanding of such things, it can be confirmed this was a true, deep and abiding love... Love. We were young, very young, and rode the roller coaster of love, angst, innocence, lust, confusion, joy, hell that is inevitable and required of all initiates.
It couldn't last. Full of adolescent drama and trauma "The Breakup" was truly grand in scale and teetered on the edge of ending very tragically, befitting any such scenario scribed by the Bard himself. As the song says, though, love heals the wound it makes, and over time the love which remained at the core managed to calm the stormy seas. We lapsed into a distant, but deep, friendship, silently acknowledging that while it was not in the stars to remain together, what we shared in the brief time we were together, while maybe equalled, certainly would not be surpassed.
It was June. I was sitting on my couch in my little house on Faerie Queen Lane. I was wearing red shorts and a t-shirt. Home, briefly - I was working as Assistant Stage Manager for the summer musical theatre in the City, and my days were 14 hours long, 7 days a week. No time off. Someone came to the screendoor and knocked - a long-time friend I hadn't seen in a while, Bobby, was standing on the other side of the screen door. I let him in and he told me. Tim had been killed in a car crash. A drunk driver had smashed into him.
I wasn't able to go to Texas for the funeral. I asked friends about his poetry, where was it? I wanted it. But it was in the possession of his mother, which I conceded, was where it should remain. And I comforted myself with a sort of fantasy over the years that followed. Tim was just the sort to stage a disappearance and I wondered if one day I'd get a knock at my door and there he'd be.
Several years ago his mother, "Minnie-Mum" we called her, lost a battle with cancer and passed away. After her memorial service, Tim's sister took me by the hand and took me to the little vault in the church where Tim's ashes had been placed. Seeing that chipped away at the hope I'd etched lightly in the back of my mind. A few months later, his sister delivered a package to me. It was Tim's poetry to me, some stories, notes we passed in class, prom mementos, a lock of my hair...I put it away.
All of the memories came rushing forward yesterday, when for a brief, brief time it seemed maybe, just maybe what I'd hoped might just be true. A co-worker was sitting in my office gabbing away while I was glancing through the online version of our local paper. I checked the obits and commented, "No-one I know died." He stated that there should be some sort of national obit database and I informed him there was, of sorts - the Social Security Death Index. I've used it to look up my grandparents and some other distant relatives. We played around with it for a while, looking up relatives and ourselves to be sure we were still alive. And then I thought to look up Tim. I'd never done that - had never thought to do it. I entered his name and... nothing. No records.
I entered his name every conceivable way, year of death, etc. Nothing. Oh, shit. When I got home after work, I impulsively pulled out the package of Tim's poetry and mementos and dumped it out on the bed. I started to look through, but halted - I had to get to rehearsal. The thought that he just very well could be alive, in witness protection, in New Zealand, even in prison somewhere just would not go away. After rehearsal, I read through some of the poetry and was transported back in time for a few minutes. I repackaged everything and put it away again and went to unwind with a few hands of cards.
This morning, I googled a bit farther and found another death record index site for Texas. This time I got a response. Timothy M. Robertson, date of death June 6, 1976. The fantasy comes to a close. I really never believed otherwise, but I'd had a tiny hope. I have the memories, tucked deep inside, where from time to time I can revisit. But.... maybe, just maybe...
Inside myself I see the pain
Loneliness can bring.
Outside myself, I see the rain
Veiling everything.
Everything is dying now,
Kingdoms fall away,
Yet, though the ages bow,
My love will always stay.
