When we were kids, my sister Anna nearly choked to death on a marshmallow.  It was a wintery afternoon, with snow deep on the ground when we trooped down to our uncle’s house to have hot chocolate. There being six kids in our family plus a token adopted neighborhood kid or two, inviting ten rambunctious children in to drink hot beverages was risky enough without one of them nearly dying.

Sitting mere centimeters away from me, Anna silently gagged and turned a bluish shade of purple before I had any indication that there was something amiss.  It was our friend Kristi, cozied up across the table from us, who finally noticed Anna’s predicament.  Instead of flailing out or banging a distressed fist on the wooden tabletop, Anna sat quietly next to me and stoically fought death off.  As Kristi’s hysterical screams echoed through the room, Anna calmly pulled the offending marshmallow from her mouth and layed it, slimy and dripping, on the table.

It was a good few years I believe before she was able to gulp down whole marshmallows again and though ultimately she saved herself that day, I often wonder why Anna struggled on alone, noiselessly choking, instead of making a scene for help.  Yet, that is Anna, always determined to seize life in her way, in her terms.  Whether she knows it or not though, there always are and always have been those of us standing by, at the ready, should she ever need saving again or just a good strong pat on the back.

I could liken you, of course, to blood
like on the days that we would
butcher chickens as red would fly
and feathers and sometimes the chickens themselves
or when I was little and scrapped my knee
or the time that they had to sew my finger back on.
But Red, that makes you sound so ruthless
especially when you sit peacefully
in my kitchen on a beautiful platter–little cupcakes
with white frosting
or the round little pillow with the button in the middle
that is on my bed that I too am on
or his lips when he is hungry for me.

Red, I know you to be the walls in
the room where my piano stood and the tall shelves
that held all of those books
that I grew up reading
and Red, you are my favorite coat
and my sexiest lingerie.

We are told that you are roses
but you are a million other little flowers as well.
You can be dangerous little berries
that stop the heart (also red)
but I’ve discovered you in a market in Tokyo
on a terribly rainy day in the sweetest strawberries
I’ve ever had.

Red, you can be rosy cheeks and laughter.
When I think of grizzly hugs, aside from grizzlies, I think of you.
Needless to say Red, we have given you Love.

I paint my toenails up in you
my lips too, that have so much to say
and sometimes nothing to say at all.

Red, we are told that you are passion
but they won’t come out and say that you are an animal
wild and hungry
and they won’t say how sometimes you can be soft
and sometimes even quiet,
all they can remember is your fire
like the time the neighbors house burst
into flames and the red truck came to hose it out
and all of their water-damaged, smoke-scented belonging that meant
everything
to them was brought out into the front lawn
or they remember the fire of the red shoes which meant “come and get me!”

But I know you Red
because, don’t forget that I am an animal too
and we’ve got a bit of it all
don’t we?

His death spreads out before us, like a pebble tossed into a smooth, clear lake.  And, like the ripples on the pristine surface, growing ever wider and encompassing more and more, it’s evident that the loss of him has, and will, reach the far corners of this world.

Though my heartbreak is small, even infantismal, when compared to the engulfing grief of others, I can feel his absence.  Yet, his essence lingers.  The sound of his voice and the soft swish of his leather jacket still echo in my ears and I can almost catch the fleeting smell of his cigarettes.  Very few people in this world have lived life as fully and courageously as he, and his enthusiasm for living was inspiring.  What a legacy he leaves, what a life he lived, what a man he was.  His calm and capable presence pervaded all he did and I feel proud to have known him at all and ashamed to have not known him better.

Dedicated to a true pioneering spirit, Mike Worthey~

My eyes; His eyes

The sky that falls to meet that blue blue sea

This ink

This blue coat with its blue hood that holds me

The lake that I learned to swim in—yes that same one that nearly captured my last blue breath

Willie says blue eyes crying in the rain

Which makes me think of Seattle in the early morning

As I meandered thru the city before class

And that boy who stood outside smoking,

Making me wish that I smoked

But I didn’t so I never talked to him

Instead I left that school and migrated south to where the sky is nothing but bright

And there are not too many rivers

Just giant blue ocean waves that carry surfers and every now and then, you can spot a dolphin.

Tonight is a blue night (not that happy Greek blue either)

I thought about crying because my heart is lonely but I don’t want to mess up my mascara

So instead I sit here chipping the blue polish off my nails and think about when he will walk in the door.

I am listening to Bob Dylan (who knows a thing or two about dark blue nights) but can also sing about the bluest of mornings & cake & love.

Oh blue. Blue. You hold my heart.

You are both the happiest color and the saddest.

Had you a voice, blue, I would imagine it to sound like Otis and his arms and his dreams.

Had you a taste, it would have to be the plump huckleberries that grow wildly in the mountains of Washington that my Grandma bakes into the most delicious dessert these lucky lips have had.

Willie says blue eyes crying in the rain

Which makes me think of Seattle

And makes me miss them even more.