The rains finally came last night and boy, did they ever. Huge, thrumming, thundering rain, pounding and biblical. We should have lost power, we always did before, no router, not enough candles, reading by votives, no heat, but it was warm this time and perhaps the power company did some work on the boxes, on the lines.
I flicked on the deck light and looked out at the pooling lake and saw, a cane, varnished, yellow and floating, carved with mysterious icons, Todd’s. Given to Bodhi like so many other sticks and swords and protective make-believe real steel weapons.
Then I dreamt of a six-gun. I was showing it off at a bar in Austin and a cop spied me through the window from across the street. He came in to check me out. “It’s not loaded,” I lied. “My brother gave it to me.” That was true, in the dream. It was the Colt he’d used, the one he’d lent Bodhi for a photograph one year before, the firing pin removed, the barrel empty and spun to prove it, in the same living room where we held his memorial in Berkeley.
I almost cried this a.m. I tried again, the sinuses giving way to some strange humidity, what is this feeling I wonder, as the cheeks, the nose, the eyebrows draw together. Weeping like a wounded aloe plant, but as the man said, “and these pills won’t let me cry.” He was Freedy Johnston, it’s a good quote. I get it now.
When she loved, she loved wholly and fully and it was everything to her. When she loved it was without reservation, without desire, she would go anywhere, do anything, live anyplace. When we feel the ache of abandonment, we need to be held, for we were not held enough, not us.
I am an unreliable narrator. I am not judge and jury. I will try and get you to feel things to sympathize, to be there for him when you were not in real life. To regret. I know I do.