Peace, Joe

I composed a perfect letter to you in my head. It said all the things I wanted to say, in a way I could publish. But I was driving at the time, so here is another shot.


I met your friend John K., who clearly loves you. I got to know your wife Chris, who sees the best in you. Her emotional intelligence, patience, and energy are astounding. She has since told me things that confirm my sad suspicions.

Babe is grieving, and Judy is acting out. Ani is confused, so I took her with me so that Chris could comfort the older ones. Ani, who you proudly introduced to me on Christmas Day as the last of your Giant Schnauzers. You were worried about your mortality compared with theirs. Four days later you died.

You left behind a wife both grieving and relieved. And a puppy who snuggles her big ridged head into my side for affection. She is used to being shouted at, and is eager to please, and reminds me daily of your capacity for love.

I keep seeing your face – smiling in a way I rarely saw you do. Smiling as if you were happy, which you never were.

The priest who said some words at the funeral home gave me two choices to read. One spoke of friendship, the other, torment. I chose torment.

I am so sorry, Joe. I hope you are on the Peace Train at last.

Memento Mori -- Jule: February 2005

On December 26th I received a phone call from the father of a childhood friend. The man told me his wife died of pneumonia last February. Then he went on to tell of the death of his son, my old friend, last July. Tom died in Thailand of pneumonia, just like his mother, who he loved very much. I hadn't seen him in 20 years, but he was probably the most important childhood friend I had. I was too stunned to say much in that phone conversation, but I have been grieving ever since. I thought I'd be able to check in with him forever.

Tom you were heaven sent to me. The laughter I shared with you during my gradeschool years is one of my most precious memories. Even though we were guilty of cruel mockery of those around us, there was something both healing and teaching in our silly games. What I wouldn't give for one of your little torn paper 'magazines' from sixth grade, with the drawings and the rants. Somewhere I have a 'Certificate of Self' you gave me the last time I saw you alive. You were my chief cheerleader and my gentle mocker. I loved you to the best of my childish ability and I will love you always.