The many tears a man can cry for what he'll never know.

   There is so much to say, so many topics, but today I found myself stunned upon remembrance of something I wrote a very long time ago. When I was in high school, one night I was sitting next to my mom, she was playing Tetris, and I said, "I never realized the many tears a man could cry for what he'll never know." It was just a line, just the start of a poem that had no inspiration, until the day I was walking down commercial street in Springfield, Missouri. I don't know what it is like now, but back then it was where the homeless congregated. I saw a man, likely insane, perhaps just drunk, sitting in an alley, rocking back and forth and hugging his knees, talking to whoever he thought was in front of him. I couldn't stop thinking about that man and what life had dealt him to get him to this place. Then, this poem.


   I walked down a lonely avenue, seeing faces no one knew and asked this huddled, dirty man why he was crying so?
   He looked at me, he dried his eyes, and said "I never realized the many tears a man can cry for what he'll never know."
   He said "I miss her more today than the death I died for her yesterday. My love and I, my darling May, our life was short but sweet.
   For here is where she ran to hide. I could not help her, though I tried, and in my arms my true love died down this empty, lonely street.
   And ever since she went away, tomorrow's just another day. I look back on my yesterdays unsure of what I see.
   Confusion is the path I chose. I'll walk along this winding road, not quite content to walk alone. There is no love for me."
   And as he spoke I soon remembered, cherished moments, quickly embered from when I held you last December as we sat beneath my tree.
   The lights reflecting in your eyes, when all at once I realized the folly and perish of the so called wise. My guilt and pain in harmony.
   You are the one I love the most, and though I've tried to kill your ghost, my mind's eye still plays host to these cherished memories.
   And years from now, if I survive, I'll sit alone, I'll sit and cry, and through my tears they'll hear me sigh, there is no love for me.

   Certainly it is in need of some grammatical and punctual corrections and is the ramblings of a teenage boy, but the words are haunting to me now. In the poem I was the observer. In my life now, I am the "huddled, dirty man." The phrase, "I never realized the many tears a man can cry for what he'll never know." In my last last entry I wrote a lot about the things I'll never know. There is a whole life full of memories that will never be, and I have cried so many tears over them. I never realized the extent of the sorrow of losing such a deep love. My first thought is to say that I have not lost the love but the loved one. Sappy people will say that I've not lost her if she lives on in my heart. Tripe. I have lost her and the question now is where has that love gone? It is no longer an active thing. I cannot show her my love and I cannot feel her love in return. It has been turned into a memory, but it's still there. Maybe it is like the huddled dirty man said when he said "although I've tried to kill the ghost my mind's eye still plays host to these cherished memories." Then there is the line, "I could not help her, though I tried." One thing I will never forget is finding Willow lying in the floor, lifeless, lifting her body and feeling her as fluid and limp as a newly dead body can be. I could not help her, though I tried. She was already gone. When you are deprived of oxygen your lactic acid in your blood rises. At a level 7 you are critical. She was at a level 17. She was gone, I could not help her, though I tried. I called 911, I stood aside as Alice did CPR and I ran next door to get my neighbor, a paramedic, who was not home. I jumped in my truck and raced up to the main street to meet the ambulance to bring them back as we have no land line and I had called from my cell phone. I raced back and tended to my family while the EMTs and first responders worked on little Willow's lifeless body. I drove my family to the hospital where Willow had been flown to. I prayed, but I could not help her, though I tried, and in my arms, in her room, on the floor, my true love had died.  "And ever since she went away, tomorrow's just another day. I look back on my yesterdays not knowing what I see." Every day seems to be a blur. I could not tell you what I did a day ago or two days ago had I not written about them in this blog. My yesterdays, the days I shared with Willow, I just don't remember them. I try and bring her back in memories. I try and look at this part of the house and think "what did she do over there?" That other part of the house and think of what she may have done over there? Sometimes I think I see things, sometimes I think I have a memory come back but am unsure if it is real or if I am creating it. "I look back on my yesterdays unsure of what I see." How terribly prophetic. How could I have, maybe 20 years ago, written so clearly about the man I would be at 35, about what that man would be like? How did I know what to write to describe how it feels to have lost someone I love so very much and in a similar way. Holding her dead body in my arms. "Confusion is the path I chose." If that doesn't describe me at this point in life nothing does. All I am certain of is that I am not certain of much at all. God, Jesus, the meaning of life, why we are here, why we live, what or who we live for? Mysteries. I never seem to have an answer for any of those questions. I don't seem to be able to accept anything on faith, I need evidence, and I do not accept the evidence I do find, so I end up confused. Is confusion the path I have chosen? "Not quite content to walk alone." At this point I am far from content in any way. I cannot imagine that I will ever be content to live a life knowing that Willow is dead. I will learn to deal with this. I will establish a new normal and will someday face the choice of life again, as a friend put it to me today. I am not ready to face that choice yet. I need to embrace my grief. I need to find a way of working past the times when I want to just quit trying. There really are times, less and less frequent, when I want to just lay down and never get back up. That is an option I have all but put behind me by now, but there are those times. "There is no love for me." When I read that last line from the huddled, dirty man, I think that maybe he is right. Then, I think that there is no way he could be right. Then, I know that I am not the huddled, dirty man. I know that there is love for me. (Ironically, Shelby, who is sitting in the next chair doing Calculus just let out an exasperated, "I love you" to me.) There is love for me. My daughter loves me. She is one of the few 18 year old girls who wants to spend time with her dad. She went for a walk/jog and my son and I rode along with her on our Schwinn Stingrays. Oh yeah, his favorite bike in the world is his original blue Schwinn Stingray and yesterday I bought myself, okay him, a brand new reproduction Schwinn Stingray, and we rode together. You should have seen the look on his face. He thought we were the coolest duo in the world! I have the love of my son. He is 11 and starting to hit those pre-teen psychotics but he still loves his dad. Then there is my wife. I can't say that I understand her or why she even tolerates me, the two of us being as drastically different as we are, but she's not going anywhere. I am fairly certain that someday I will be a Pawpaw again. Maybe I will choose another name to go by because that was what Willow called me and she will always have my very heart and soul. I am hers.
   The rest of the poem goes on to describe a man remembering his past love that he shared a Christmas with whom he let go of. I do remember this past Christmas when I was helping Willow open her presents. She did so love those lights and those ornaments. We had to keep them all above her reach because she kept taking them off. :-) She had this way of running her hands all over the wrapping as if she were tearing it as I was running my hands all over it too, mimicking her movements but slyly ripping the paper so that she thought that she was doing it. She loved that so much. She loved helping me. She loved helping me open my presents too! i will never forget how on the days when I would come home from work after she was already home, my first action was to sit down and take my boots off and she would run her hands all over the shoe strings as if she were untying the boots herself, as I slyly untied them while mimicking her movements. She would then carry my size 12 Doc Martens, one at a time, struggling under their weight, to the closet to put them away for me. I think of it every time I come home and have to go through that process all by myself. My boots never make it to the closet anymore. I sit and look at them and picture Willow bending over, struggling to find the right grasp so that she could pick it up, and then  stumbling all across the living room until she made it to the closet. No one ever told her to do it. She just loved being a helper. So years from now, if I survive, I'll sit with my family, my wife, my kids, their spouses and perhaps even more grandchildren, and through my happy tears they'll hear me tell them how blessed I am and how dearly I love them. They'll hear it everyday, every one of them. There is so much love for me.