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Category: Friends
We've just returned from a family excursion, and I promised the writer of the poem below that I would share this story with my online friends, so here goes ...
"Why are you crying?" wondered my 17-year-old. The van door opened, but not without a protesting croak.
"I was thinking about writing," was the short answer. She wasn't looking for a long answer. She shook her head over me in bewilderment and pronounced, "Take off your shoes and come down to the beach, the sand is awesome!"
I slipped off my rickety sandals and moved toward the sound of the waves, letting the wind whip my sandy hair into an approximation of dreadlocks. The cool water licked at my toes. I shivered. For a few minutes, I crouched in the sand, listening to the soothing wash of the tide, but the chilly air began to accentuate an ache that began somewhere behind my eyes and was pulsing down my jawline. Lack of sleep, and the pressure of being the driver, were taking their toll on my body. I headed back to the van to take an ibuprofen.
The sand clung to my feet, begging me to notice its incongruous warmth. The sun had had a chance to heat it just before the fog rolled in. I wished that I could somehow find a kindred spirit who would understand my frustration at not being able to write a poem.
Between me and my destination, a white-haired, bearded man sat cross-legged on a wool blanket. I glanced at his shoes--the quality of his leather boots reassured me somehow of his intentions. He pulled a paperback out of a backpack and I think my lips must have curled in answer to his attempt at a smile.
He showed me the book he was reading, and then asked unexpectedly, "Would you like to hear me read a poem?"
Oh, yes, I found myself saying -- I was just having a conversation with the Universe about wanting to hear a poem.
He pulled out a small, college-lined notebook and cleared his throat:
"Summer Twilight," he read. "I wrote this one last night."
"The horizon's afire by a summer sun beyond its set,
and winds aloft shoulder sounds of a passing day.
Pipers wrestle tidbits left from a comber's crest,
while the shore prepares for twilight in its ever-changing way.
"Waves thunder upon the sand,
then recede with a sigh.
Beach verandas glow by candlelight
with wine and brie;
and pinpoints of crystal ignite
the Universe 'n sky,
solar embers remain, highlighting
the ebb of the Sea.
"Celestial lights embrace
the final descending rays.
Summer twilight is on the
midnight azure plane;
and as a compass moon ascends,
ending another summer day,
I, desperately longing for You,
hear the ocean whisper your name."
He read without much expression, letting the words work for him, but he noticed how the ending struck me. I stood quietly for a moment, then asked, "This must have been written about someone in particular ..."
"Yes," he admitted, "It is about my wife. I lost her two years ago. She died of lymphoma."
"I'm so sorry," was all that I could muster.
"It's the fortieth anniversary of Woodstock, and we were there together." He smiled, eyes moistened. "I had to write something."
"Do you know, I'm 39," I said, "So all of that happened just before I was born, I wonder sometimes what it all meant to my parents. I remember the music." I didn't tell him that I've never had a one-on-one conversation with my father.
He stared at me and declared, "I'm going to dedicate this poem to you."
He scribbled under the poem: "May these words bring you a smile. Great meeting you. Your friend, Eric A."
"But--" I protested, "Do you have another copy of the poem?"
"I remember it," he reassured me. He tore two pages out of the notebook and handed them to me.
"Can I share this with my friends who write poems?" I asked.
"Of course," He nodded. The skin around his eyes had begun to redden.
Just then, one of my daughters run up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder. "Let's go, Mom!"
"I don't know what to say," my words and tone were stumbling all over the place. "Thank you very much."
"Have. A great life," said Eric with some emphasis. We found ourselves shaking hands. I told him that I wished him many blessings.
When I reached the van, I slid the poem safely into a folder.
"Mom, are you up to your poem stuff again?" asked one of the children.
"Yes," I admitted, and reached for the ibuprofen, but after my meeting with Eric I hardly needed it. I thanked the Universe for giving me the gift of that conversation, and turned the key in the ignition, trying to ignore the mass of matted hair and the pale face in the mirror.
4:23 PM
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