balladeer of moons
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Letter to Charlie
Letter to Charlie
Dear Charlie,
When I saw your white car standing still when the sun was straightening up, I feared this might be the work of the Relentless Harvester, a season early. I promised myself to abandon the thought, but not without stinging eyes and stained cheek. But the thought stayed and the valor of my foray to forget the worst faded.
I still had no news, only fears. The hospital was as good as a continent away.
To you, I was mostly a head in a window and now this head was conjuring wild imaginings:
the still car became a broken clock, each falsely reported start a faulty tick of the second hand.
My visions began to come together. By the time I finish composing this letter, you would have achieved your last commute -- something I cannot say -- the bittersweet trek still central to my faltering existence.
But you are secure for all forthcoming time -- whatever passes over the soreness of the coin-weary day cannot reach a navigator of the stars. And I can still remember the burnt steaks and beer ghosting from the doorway to the grass's green perfection, the baptized sidewalks, the lit cigarette (however imprudent) and monarch's walk (I always believed you were a sure ringer for George VI) as you climbed the steps of the house you owned.
Whatever rooms you move through now and whatever streets you pace above Whisper Avenue -- know that I brought the dogs home with an old red scarf I borrowed from the broomy stump of a relic snowman -- and know that in the tattered red scarf of my still hurrying heart, no one is ever truly missing -- they only become a new name for starlight.
Yours faithfully,
Joe
Dear Charlie,
When I saw your white car standing still when the sun was straightening up, I feared this might be the work of the Relentless Harvester, a season early. I promised myself to abandon the thought, but not without stinging eyes and stained cheek. But the thought stayed and the valor of my foray to forget the worst faded.
I still had no news, only fears. The hospital was as good as a continent away.
To you, I was mostly a head in a window and now this head was conjuring wild imaginings:
the still car became a broken clock, each falsely reported start a faulty tick of the second hand.
My visions began to come together. By the time I finish composing this letter, you would have achieved your last commute -- something I cannot say -- the bittersweet trek still central to my faltering existence.
But you are secure for all forthcoming time -- whatever passes over the soreness of the coin-weary day cannot reach a navigator of the stars. And I can still remember the burnt steaks and beer ghosting from the doorway to the grass's green perfection, the baptized sidewalks, the lit cigarette (however imprudent) and monarch's walk (I always believed you were a sure ringer for George VI) as you climbed the steps of the house you owned.
Whatever rooms you move through now and whatever streets you pace above Whisper Avenue -- know that I brought the dogs home with an old red scarf I borrowed from the broomy stump of a relic snowman -- and know that in the tattered red scarf of my still hurrying heart, no one is ever truly missing -- they only become a new name for starlight.
Yours faithfully,
Joe