So far away. In time and distance. Some days I feel you near me, as if hovering nearby. Faint images of your smile and a whispered hint of your words. But it’s all just in my mind. I can’t really see you, I can’t hear your voice and I can’t call you up for advice. Like these Brooklyn Buildings. Inaccessible, distant, closed off for good.
Abandoned and Empty. I struggle at times to see a point. But your whispers return to remind me to look again. And learn. You wouldn’t want us to succumb to fate. Or let philosophical quandaries prevent us from enjoying our lives. Perhaps we all end up alone. Perhaps we all vanish into nothingness. Meanwhile we can work to make the most of the world that exists today. I hear your words and know what you would say. Someday maybe I can take them to heart.
Passing through. Stopped in the road. Never to reach its destiny. Frozen in time. I look back and you are always there. The pictures give glimpses into your life. But never a chance to really know what was going through your mind.
Posted by culturalchaika | February 13, 2011 | Categories: Learning to cope with death. Trying to Understand. | Leave a comment
So much social commentary you could provide. I write your captions and wonder what you saw. Every day I’m inundated with more questions I wish I’d asked.
Posted by culturalchaika | February 8, 2011 | Categories: Learning to cope with death. Trying to Understand. | 2 Comments
Somehow the mismatched dates leave me wondering. Always with the questions. They look so similar. Were they really years apart? Which years was I with you? Of course it doesn’t really matter. It’s just the reminder. You would have known. You would have even known the day. And probably had a story to tell. And what’s worse – I record the stories of other people. Tapes and pages filled with their lives. Yours was too close. Asking to record seemed too close to an admission that you could die. And I never believed it could happen. I’m still not sure I completely believe it is true.
They come back to life as our eyes and their images cross. You took me to a place that soon no longer existed. Who could have known? Like the final phone call last October. I never would have guessed. And
I’ll never understand.
Posted by culturalchaika | January 22, 2011 | Categories: Learning to cope with death. Trying to Understand. | Tags: death travel past ussr | Leave a comment