Live to Tell

I was thinking today that I couldn’t possibly survive any more grief. It seems I’m burying my loved ones at a good swift clip averaging every six months, and each occasion freshly macabre in a whole new way. I am so very very sad that my beautiful, crazy, elegant Bobby Martin died recently. I’ve written so much about addiction, and I don’t want to write about it again. You would not believe how much this person went through to get better. Bobby was an enigmatic and big-hearted fellow, intense, rough around the edges yet compellingly soft. I don’t want to say goodbye. God, please, no, I really cannot say goodbye. I can tell you by now that there is nothing I hate more in this world than crystal methamphetamine.

I found this old collage in a scrapbook. Immediately I burst into tears: I remember fooling around on that one with some pieces Bobby Martin had collected for me. He always brought me assorted images for my collage files. Bobby was making collages that day, too. In the crooked little white house where I lived with various crazy people, we often just hung out making small artworks. Being creative together.

I don’t know when this hole in my heart will heal, or if I should just accept that I’m permanently an open-hearted mess. Wide, wide open.

Here at home, I pulled out a painting I made for Bobby just after Marko, his close friend, died of the same illness. Heal Yourself, it implored. I depicted a figure from the tarot, blindfolded and surrounded by knives, trapped. There were owls, for Bobby’s totem spirit, and a phrase cut out that said, “The unexpected beauty of worn and imperfect things.”

Now I sit here in the dark, contemplating the vast unknown, and I feel like I’m the one missing the party. Will Dimitri and Japey and Crazy Paul be fixing fruity martinis with little kiwi garnishes, having introduced themselves to each other without my help? Will Marko and Bobby finally get to meet Johnny Cash and Tupac? What about Zoe? Is she chilling in that soul pool she talked about? Is everyone really here with me, or are you all there without me?

Well, my time is gonna come. No doubt about it. But I live to tell, and you can all expect another batch of grim poetry. Life is precious. Do something on your list this week, and tell your friends you love them.

Visit Lorette C. Luzajic at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.
Buy her poetry collection, The Astronaut’s Wife, through her site, or through indigo or amazon.