Tide Goes Out (but never really leaves)

 

Christmas 2019 tide going out Bunche Beach

Tide Goes Out (but never really leaves)

At first I thought this was another

“Since, Unfinished” Richard Blanco-style

poem, you know, the one that uses the

repeated phrase “I have been writing this since…”

but I haven’t been writing this.

It has been writing me.

Not sure exactly when it started, but I know

I cannot start a new year until I have completed

the business from the last year, the thing that

has been skirting around the periphery of my mind

since, well, I’m not sure. July maybe? And it came

to full force in mid-November and actually has

never left me since, even though I tell myself,

you should be long over this by now. What are

we talking about? Almost 45 years. But do these

things make sense? From what I’m learning…no.

It started with a song, of course, one called

“Seasons in the Sun” that is a beautifully moving

song when performed in Jacques Brel is Alive and Well

and Living in Paris, but was turned into a pop ditty

in the 1970’s by Terry Jacks. It is this version that

haunts me. It is one my brother told me he liked,

along with “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” and so we

would turn it up on the radio and sing. Until the

day I was driving him in that red Volkswagen Bug

and the song came on and he demanded I turn

it off. I didn’t want to believe what I was hearing,

but he insisted, and from that moment on I knew

my brother knew he was going to die, even though

it was supposed to be a well-kept secret from everyone

but my parents. The cruelty of that is beyond measure

in so many ways, the damaging effects long-lasting.

I’ve seen them.

But that isn’t the only music that has come full force

at me these last few months.  Just these past couple

of weeks I’ve had to come face-to-face with other

songs that carry me back, that make the grief rise

up. We watched the Kennedy Center Honors

celebrate the artistry of Linda Ronstadt, and as

is normal for these things, her breakout album

Heart Like a Wheel from winter 1975 was discussed

and praised. Lord knows, I know, because I was

listening to it nonstop during that time that my

brother’s tide was going out. I cannot think of this

time without that music. Linda went on to be a huge

influence in my life in many other ways. In the time

it took to salute her, I became a blubbering mess.

Later in the show they celebrated 50 years of Sesame

Street, and again I found myself wiping tears from my

eyes, as they did the song “Sing,” one that I never remember

was a Sesame Street song, but a Carpenters hit. No matter,

because all I ever hear are all the 4^th grade voices singing

the song at my brother’s funeral. It can’t be anything else but that.

                        Back to July, I had time with my brother

and some of our neighborhood friends from days past, and

it felt so good to sit with people that had been there and knew

my brother for his entire brief life. There isn’t anything to explain,

or any grief that has to be uncovered. As it turns out, another

brother was lost in the meantime, and there we sat together

in the Cheesecake Factory and remembered the good times

together, the gifts given by these two, both gone too soon.

And my brother shared with them the news of his grandson, Aiden,

still battling cancer. A month later we would find out that his

treatment would be ending, and in November that brave boy,

decked out in a superhero cape, rang the bell at the hospital

signaling the end of chemo, and a grand celebration was held

throughout that weekend. And I wished I could be there, and

at the same time I found anger arising it couldn’t be the same

for my brother. I’ve tried to say, hey, what Richie went through

helped kids like Aiden. I know that logically. Emotionally, it is

still hurtful.

Richie – born and died too soon.

                        Back to early 1975, when I read the book

Catcher in the Rye. It wasn’t until I reread this book sometime

in 2008 that I remembered this book was essentially about a

boy that had suffered the loss of his brother. I recently saw

an article on LitHub where people were weighing in on

Holden Caulfield -- is he just a spoiled wacky kid, or

did he have reasons for the way he is. And I was happy to

read that most people understood that the loss of Holden’s

brother Allie was the real reason behind his actions, and I

could so relate, I could see it so clearly. It mentioned Holden

punching out the garage windows upon Allie’s death, and

that happened in my family as well – just one window, but

my brother wore a bandage all through the wake and funeral.

And the part about the grave and not wanting to think of his

brother’s body in the cold ground. That is me. That is why I

don’t visit graves.

When watching the film Little Women, Jo and Beth are sitting

at the beach, and it’s well-known that Beth’s heart is weak,

but Jo doesn’t want to hear it and wants to shut down the

conversation. Then Beth says something to the effect that

it is like the tide. It will go out, no matter how slowly.

Inevitable.

So, I’ve been writing this over the course of several months,

and then there was one more thing to add onto the flurry of

noise surrounding this latent grief, these little waves coming

up and sometimes overwhelming me, most of the time I’m

able to ride, but sometimes not. This is about another song,

one called “Go Rest High on that Mountain” that Vince Gill

wrote about the loss of his brother. And this year at the annual

Ryman show with his wife Amy, Vince introduced a new final

verse to the song. He had thought for a long time that the song

might not really be done, so he added a final verse to wrap it

up, and performed it at the Ryman. The video on YouTube of

his first performance shows a man who can barely get through

those final words, and I knew deep inside how unfinished it is for

all of us. We can add verses, I can write this poem trying to make

sense of what makes no sense, and yes, someday we will be

united, I believe that. But I also know that tide comes and goes,

and this will, too. No matter what I do. No matter how much

I want to believe it can come to end. It doesn’t.

It is in the music and the books.

It is in the friends and family who knew him.
it is in the memories that won't go away.
 

It is since…unfinished.

1/1/2020   9:04 a.m.

Richie December 1973