Like the slow process of viewing a lithograph picture,
the reality of his death came into view.
It happened long after the predawn
telephone call that began "I've got bad news . . ."
"God," I wondered aloud, "What now . . . Who now!"
He had "just died," she said.
I went numb; people like him don't "just" die!
It was long after the dream.
Talking 'bout his death, I wondered why.
"Know what's frustrating 'bout being dead?" he asked.
"Its so damned permanent!" he answered.
Long after the hours of staring at a blank monitor.
Wishing I could put to paper the essence of his life,
the reality of his death.
Long after the funeral.
Another funeral I would not attend,
'cause I could not!
Much later.
Listening to the melody of a spiritual ballad,
his image slowly appeared.
And through that image,
all those others whose deaths I had rationalized
but refused to emotionalize.
And the tears fell.
There was Dadda and Uncle D,
Enoch and Pee Wee.
Nat and Vat,
Aunt Zil, J. Faweh,
and Ojou, Mission,
Waters, C.O.
The Big Fisherman . . .
Opening a floodgate of names and images.
Names of the hundreds whose deaths
may be recorded somewhere,
and of the tens of thousand others
who may never be recorded as
having been part of this rat race.
Individuals all. Who,
like he, had heard
'every rope's got an end.'
That 'a thousand years'
was not forever.
That 'no condition is permanent.'
Individuals all -
whose ropes had come to an end,
whose last day was forever.
And whose condition was now
'so damn permanent.'
Well, mine ain't -- yet!
And through their memory I now know,
that if I could,
I should!

C.C.: To Their Memory