This poem is actually rooted in a painful memory. When I was in high school, a very good friend of mine was hit by a train and killed instantly. *Jon and I had almost the same phone number - just off by one digit - and were constantly getting wrong numbers for one another. And from that sparked a friendship, even though we were quite different. He would tease me for my teen love for Duran Duran and Hollywood heartthrobs, and secretly I loved that he introduced me to different music and "art" movies. Even though his punk/Emo look at the time seemed so dark and unwelcoming, he truly had a fun and loving soul.
We both loved drama and performed in several high school plays together. In fact, it was during the after party for one of those plays, while I was wondering for hours where he was, we learned of his tragic death. Friends say he was trying to beat the train across the tracks, but I have always wondered about the notes of sadness and darkness that often were revealed in conversations. I'll never know if it was the heart breaking consequence of a poor choice, or a deliberate gesture. I still remember running out of the house into the cold, dark night, his voice from only a few hours prior still in my ears - because of course someone had mixed up our numbers again and called me to get *Jon - and finding myself at our bridge near the tracks. The very bridge where he promised me just a few hours earlier that he come to celebrate with his fellow performers. I remember the phone ringing as I left my house later, assuming it was a wrong number again. To this day I wonder if it was perhaps Jon calling to laugh about the latest wrong dial.
I wish I had known that moment of parting under the bridge, would be our last good-bye.
The Bridge of Last Goodbyes
Remember that late night,
when I walked out of the world?
Into any wind that blew; under any sky to witness me losing my way
Seeking shelter beneath the bridge of last goodbyes…
What slow, soft memories the river made,
while it’s coolness tickled our toes,
and your voice bent it’s soft keys upon the humid air;
A scattered harmony cut from woe
I am damp with these memories
Of seeking light within a broken promise -
and knowing this twilight will die;
though such days never seem to end
How long have I stood angry in the rain,
poking my muddy thoughts
All the years that fly by, but the heart remains in the same place
And somewhere a phone is ringing - unanswered
As I was walking out of the world,
lost in these memories of water.
It's been over thirty years and I still feel the loss - perhaps because we were so young. It was my first experience with a death of someone my own age. This poem has been years in the making; the one that never seemed quite right. It evolved through grief, anger, sadness, denial, acceptance, and finally the memory overcame the wound.
I don't think Time heals all. I think it just gives us the space we need to allow ourselves to complete the journey. And the journey takes as long as it takes, and goes where it goes; we just need to have the willingness to follow.