Yesterday, March 26. In 2016, it was a Saturday. To breathe your last at
your desk, writing. For someone who said Let’s not get romantic about death
that’s quite the poetic exit, pal. To sing the spring dirge with your boots on.
But still, not even six months after she died. Makes sense—darkness always
had the upper hand when you were not in her presence. You said that too.
Back when you wrote to Yesenin and suicide hung in the trees, it was your
daughter’s red robe that shouted Stop! When such thoughts roosted again
after Linda died her voice came to you and said “You can’t do it. It’s selfish.”
For all the wine, women, and rambling, your wife and kids turned out to be
your saving graces. McGuane (still kicking as of today) said “No one was less
suited to assisted living.” Ain’t that the truth. Yes, we know what he meant.
But also no, because you had people around you (Joyce Bahle leaps to mind)
who helped you do life. You lived “assisted” for years, that’s how the space to
write was there. You had to do the work, no question, and boy did you ever.
But as the song says, you had “Someone to watch over me.” What a lucky man.
Contrast Vonnegut. His wife Jane sacrificed dearly daily so that he had the
space to write such was her total belief in his gifts (a.k.a., love). Then he left her.
I know only documentary tellings of that story, but it seems a primo shit move.
But you, you decided to stay. Or Linda stayed. Or maybe you both did, decided
to stay together for fifty-seven years. I guess there’s one secret of the long married.
She kept some darkness at bay for you. Is that statement too romantic? Or simply
too accurate? Seems you kept some at bay for her as well. Maybe that’s what we’re
all looking for in a love. Not someone to save us, as if they even could if they tried.
But more someone to shoo! the darkness when it comes calling, as it always does.
Although the language is grandiose, you and Linda must have been destined for one
another (you said that too). I say there’s much to be said for fidelity. To the work.
To the wife. To the Kids. To the dogs. To the earth, all the way to that sweet death.
When I think of writers who keep the darkness at bay, John, your name comes to mind.
This just made me realize what I miss most about my deceased husband --that he was SO very good at keeping the darkness at bay. I don't think I did as well for him. I was divorced; he was a widow. His grief for her and many other losses was complex and deep. We were still learning how to be married a second time, and 18 years wasn't enough. Memories of him still help keep the darkness at bay for me. Thank you for sharing your poetry.