Antonio

February 13th, 2024

I wish I was old enough when you died. I wish I was myself when you died, not the vase for an idea of mine sitting in a hospital parking lot. I remember all the faces and phone calls circling the town pretending to have known you. I remember people speaking from the presumed point of view of your wife and your son, but their words were hollow.

I was never a Bruce Springsteen fanatic, but in April I play him like I’m from Jersey. I never called myself a poet until you pointed at me with your polished finger and told me I’m screwed. I saw pretty things and made them my own – don’t worry, I’m still self-obsessed. I can still hear your laugh. I can’t shake Mary Oliver, and I always count the deer. I can only write in a shadow, and I know shadows are accentuators of light. I had a professor who held himself like you, legs crossed, eyes wild and open but he missed the mark. And I can’t verbalize the mark, so I walk around pining half the time. I sit in the heat of cafes, pen sharp on the trains. I have a stomach ache and my brain is blank. I’m tired. Yet everything is happening always, and shutting my eyes would be a blunder.

I know you would justify my life.

I know what you would say. Something about Rock N Roll, and the night, and what it means to be cool – “and you got the cool.” I feel so small here it's infuriating. I am stuck in my own shoes, they fit too well because no one has walked in them before. I am the first of my pick-pocketers and predecessors on this path. I got the cool, man.

I miss you, and a spoonful of everything I write will always be dedicated to you.