Mike Boyle

In 2003, after many years away from writing, I began again. I don’t know what brought it on, it just seemed like it was time; like something had ripened. I started seeking out other writers on the internet and found some, but they weren’t the ones I was looking for. Maybe I wasn’t the one they wanted either. No matter, one does what one does. I kept writing, failing, writing. I struggled like hell with it, tried to beat it back into shape.

Then in early 2004, I stumbled across Ron Androla’s Pressure Press message board. They were the people I was looking for, we seemed to talk the same language. Ron and others there offered encouragement and told me about the-hold. We traded poem-stories. We became friends. I thought and still think it’s odd to know and be friendly with people you never really met. It’s just on-line; it doesn’t seem real somehow. But who really knows anybody? I won’t go on about it…

That’s where I first met Cait Collins – on the boards.

I sent her some poems and a short story for the-hold expecting her to throw the story back at me with half the poems, if I was lucky. That didn’t happen. She took everything and asked for my photo, saying something about making me famous, xxoo’s, Cait. I thought, what’s wrong with this woman? Can’t she see I’m just a hack? But, looking at my stuff in with all the stuff in the-hold, it seemed to work.

“the hold's contributor mailing list - private part –“ came in the mail monthly then. I sent in some stuff and always sent a long letter along with it and she always replied with an equally long letter. Always with the xxxx oooo …. c. Wonderful, hilarious things and always with the “Yr a fine writer, Man,” or “Thanks for these Gems.”

That’s what Cait did – she made you feel special. And I’ll love her forever for that.

When I heard of her cancer struggle, I sent her letters. I sent her this CD I made of home recordings, something I did that helped me heal when I was in a bad place. Nobody I ever played this stuff for ever got it. But Cait did.

    “hey man! yer cd is truly awesome saved me from some stressfill'd days (and
    nights)...i made a copy & gots it implanted in my (6)cd'er in my van so i
    can flick it on when i drive along... now all's ya gotta do is add yer
    poetry to it.. yea that'd be kewl.. !!! man thanx for thinkin of me yer the
    bestest!!!!! xooxox.c.c.c.c.c.c.c”

    “No, Cait,” I replied, “Yr the bestest.”
    I can’t tell you how happy that made me feel.

Later, the mail with the stories. She can’t type. It’s the chemo. I didn’t know. She never let on how bad it was. Her last poems in the-hold were brave. I looked at them and marveled at the bravery there; no self-pity at all. Just telling a story.

The last e-mail we traded was about my chap. She couldn’t find it. She mailed back, she found it. “That’s a great chappie, you!” she said. Said that my poem, Hospice, was so sad. I mailed back this and that nonsense. How I tried to write that poem for months and couldn’t. How hard it was, that us poets do the hard things because we can. Such garbage. She knew already.

She never replied.

And now I know why.

Uh-huh – people always say shit like, “They will be missed.”  Such garbage. While you swing through the stars, Cait, there’s a little bit of a leash connected to my heart. I’m gonna drag you down to the river this spring, Cait. I will pull you down and show you my secret church there. Then I’ll let you go. Like a kite.

But you already knew that. You’re probably already laughing.

Rest in peace, my friend.

MB, 2-28-05

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