Gale Force
The rain comes down in sheets, the wind, a gale, as I suppose is just right, for I’m still grieving, shocked, and after all I, we all, need something green to lean into after a good rain in this empty spot where you once held ground.
I write to you in many ways, each day, asking questions. You, a person who knew where solutions lived. But there is no solving your death, no formula, no recognizable theory answering why you’re gone from here, from me, from all of us you touched.
Once you told us you were sad that you’d left behind Lea, Cal, Walt, the Blue Dog, and that great friend Roni, a character you’d built, a person we needed in our lives—someone who gave us a bed to sleep on, a meal to eat, meaningful conversation. She lived on your page, but you were our Roni. So, I ask Roni—who’s now left behind in those paragraphs, annotated by each of us—to help us understand: What does this mean?
I can’t hear her voice, but I hear what you told your Ferncliff characters—on a smoke break, waiting for your return, waiting for you to finish writing them: “I’m here. I have a few things to catch up on, but you’re on my mind. I haven’t forgotten you.”
In your apartment, among amulets, artifacts, books, photos, cups and bowls you’ve left behind, we’ve discovered the meticulous files you’ve kept us in, the ways you’ve written us into your notes. Records of how you thought of us, told us about that book, that show, that place we should research, walk, run, travel to someday, that person who might steer us in the right direction.
It’s quiet now. The rain has lessened to a drizzle. Creek’s high. The water table full again. Diversion ditches guide the overflow. The ground swells, rich to fruit and flower everything waiting in it. I say to my garden, I want you back more than I need flowers and fruit. I say to my writing friends, I want you back more than your characters do. I say to you, I want to write you into a poem so you’re seen in a way we couldn’t see you while you traveled this earth, swimming, learning, feeling. I want your smile again, that way your earrings sparkled when you laughed.
Lightning flashes over the trees. And if I look closely enough, you’re here.
It’s a tough thing, losing a friend, a sister, a guide.
I’m turned around. Direction is unclear. But the rain and the wind find their way.
Making their paths known. As you have, so elegantly, so true.
—-Jolene McIlwain