Hard as it may be to believe, it’s been 15 years since Kurt Cobain succumbed to his pain and left the world wondering what might have been, and a young daughter with little more of her famous father than his hauntingly beautiful eyes.
But it can’t really have been 15 years–that would make me…closing in on forty??? Would make my first child nearly 15?? Would mean I’ve been writing stories for almost 15 years?
Funny how time flies. And how it drags. These past 15 years were more than Kurt could face on a night when time seemed infinite.
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(this one’s from nearly 15 years ago, pulled out of a ancient computer drawer and dusted off a bit)
Saying Goodbye
I learned of Curt’s death as I lay in peaceful oblivion. Actually it happened twice. Both times my secure dream world was shattered instantly.
All alone is all we are.
Unable to form my own thoughts any longer, I relyid on song lyrics playing over and over in my head. I had no control over them, I did not pick the songs. They sprang from some CD player in my brain, specifically programmed for these nightmares. My tragedies come with their own soundtracks. Did they get you to trade, your heroes for ghosts… wish you were here… Do you think you can tell heaven from hell, blue skies from rain…
The ringing telephone woke me. I was vaguely aware of him rising to answer it in another room. I guessed from the dim morning light filtering through the black tapestry curtain that I still had an hour or so to sleep. I cocooned the covers back around my body and returned to my sleepy dream-world. Moments passed or maybe years.
He returned. He woke me by gently running his hand over my face. His fingers were chilled much deeper than the November air could explain. His hand shook just once, almost a twitch. Had I not been oblivious, I never would have noticed the indistinguishable jerk of that finger. Groggy and disoriented, what my mind could not comprehend, the rest of me understood immediately. Something terrible had happened.
Curt.
Dead.
Hot ashes for trees, hot air for the cool breeze
No it didn’t happen like that at all. I was asleep, but it was totally dark, not early morning. And there was no phone call, just the murmur of late night TV. He didn’t say anything at first; just lay there quietly. I was totally unaware, clueless, sleepy. I don’t remember what he said, the words or details. But it was a nightmare. Who would have guessed the death of a perfect stranger would hurt like this.
Kurt.
There was a song, then there were three; fragments playing like rounds in my head. Where do bad folks go when they die, don’t go to heaven where the angels fly… its alright to eat fish, ’cause they don’t have any feelings… All alone is all we are, all alone is all we are, all alone is all we are, all alone is all we are
It never occurred to me that there might be a time when this little bit of writing might be relevant to post again. And I wish it wasn’t. This time my loss is only that of observer; a pain by association. Mine is the universal pang for any person whose potential was cut so short, who died in seeminly pointless military manuverings. Mine is the pain of suffering in compaionship, because this loss touches my dearest friends. So for those of you who know the pain of losing someone you once called friend….
Epitaph
Goodbyes are hard, but I carry some of you with me. We marked each other long ago. Left pieces of ourselves we could not reclaim. Pieces we did not want, or did not want to face. Curled together against the cold, you whispered your deepest fears into my hair. Your tears still linger on my bare skin, though your words refuse to be remembered clearly. Your hand on my arm offered me a way out. You knew my secrets and I knew yours. Long ago, before broken bodies and hearts, before breached covenants and lost words, we were friends. And so we are.