- Jan McLaughlin

He was a man given to long walks alone along the river's shore; one who might open his arms toward flying birds or if no one looked, long curves of horizons; a man accustomed to seeing himself as another person entirely:           of kindnesses and flowers,           long, uninterrupted sleeps,           and caresses without gasps. His address book filled with crossed out names, surviving widows carefully printed to the right of ampersands. His knees always hurt so not worth saying more than just that once. He was a man whose feet wore paths through reeds beside a river, and their quakings under the desk left two brown smudges on the rug. Threads bare on the reupholstered kitchen chair, two buttock-sized peeks through to plastic on the seat where at last he sat - light as baby's breath between roses - pressing numbers. He was a man who left marks. Those he knew, solid, tangible, and those he felt float like pollen behind, getting in everyone's eyes, nose and throat. I buy the chair knowing I shall never change its cover. I walk along the river and in the glen open my arms. I run a finger over the dimpled ink he left on the pages - lists of names and precise schedules of medications - close my eyes and as if blind read by touch. Sure, he left his marks. His children do not mourn. They are glad to have his temper, his judgments, his unhappiness, his unalterable routines, gone. His children do not see the other marks but I do, and I mourn this man I never knew alone. (c) 2000 Jan McLaughlin

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