Across the top of your eleventh letter to Yesenin is inscribed— “for Diane W.”
Who? I’ve asked some from the Tribe of Jim if they know, but all I’ve received
is radio silence. D.W.—with whom you talked about love and art while staying
at the Arizona Inn in Tucson. Was she one of your great SHES? Color me curious.
I’ve also looked for indications as to where you’re buried. Again, curious. Strange as
I can’t find anything. You died at your “winter residence” in Patagonia, but no
mention of a funeral/graveside service. The REALLY BIG celebration months after
your death sounded like a hoot, a fitting air filled with food and friends and stories.
“Death steals everything but our stories.” I cannot tell you how often that line breaks
the surface of my mind, like some stubborn trout following the faint shadow of a fly.
Maybe it’s best I don’t know a gravesite as that would present the temptation to make
a pilgrimage, leave lilacs, a note, some totem. I’ve noticed a callous regard for graves
grow on me since my dad died. I visit his when I can, often escort for my mother. Yet
it always leaves me cold. He’s not there. Always the Easter question: Why in the world
do you seek the living among the dead? Good question. Maybe your family tucked your
mortal coil close to Linda’s, hopefully somewhere near or at least within earshot of
“the improbable mystery of moving water.” I recall reading Barry Lopez describe death
as “when the river calls your name.” Liked that when I first read it, and have ever since.
Dear God let’s talk about something other than death, like “the force that through the
green fuse drives the flower” (Dylan Thomas, right?). That force has swallowed whole
the trees behind our house, the winter skeletons now hanging heavy with meat so our
view of Lake Catherine is obscured. No problem as we can still hear her water music.
Oh, the total solar eclipse? Blew me away. The sky darkened and get this, the crickets
started singing. Amazing, plus the temp dropped about ten degrees. A friend showed
me someone’s social media post where they were abstaining from posting pics of the
eclipse out of respect for “Navajo people, and many others.” This kind of ninny virtue
signaling makes me want to howl. But as I’m sure you know, Navajo tradition holds a
solar eclipse as a time of mourning—the sun is dead—and viewing it could result in
health and spiritual problems. I know Brown Dog is his own tribe, but my gut tells me
he’d of donned the glasses and eyeballed it all. As for problems, hell, what’s one more?
I really like “a callous regard for graves.”