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.
New York City 1973
1971. The dust and dirt, accumulations over forty years. The smog itself would obscure the view just the same. And these specks have followed you, have been there. If only they could tell the stories they passed through.
Bridge over Hudson 1971. I should know where this is. Someone will tell me. I wish it could be you… And so it turns out it’s over the Hackensack River. I wonder how many other labels are leading me astray. Too many years of relying on your encyclopedic memory. Never imagining you would be gone so soon.
From the ferry. 1972 Barely here and already like a ghost. Is that how it is for us all?
From the VW van, perhaps? 1972
Central Park Boats 1973 – so cramped and clattering. I’m sure we didn’t ride one then, though I would have wanted to. At least in theory. And you would have done whatever you could to make it happen.