Dear H-----,
"I am snowing,
I am falling,
I remember."
My key broke in the lock,
so I slept in the cinder block
laundry room, scented with
road salt and old lavender
dryer sheets until you
prodded me carefully awake
with an old flaking broom,
convinced I had broken in
during the whiteout.
"I am snowing..."
You drilled out the dead brass,
told me of life as a model
in blue-eyed Milan, of growing
up in Puerto Rico, of gorgeous
men you had loved,
were still loving.
When we finally got into
my apartment, the TV
had tuned itself to deep sea blue
when the storm knocked out
the cable; the rusted radiator
chattered dimly, rattling
the mottled drapes like
a joyful cathedral veil, heat
coiling round your stories.
"I am falling..."
At 28 I was so out of touch
with myself, had no names
for raw blitzkrieg feelings
that stacked into tenements
of anger and fear and grief.
You, alone, sensed this,
saying Ay, Evan, don't worry
about the girl, the girls,
the job, whatever:
it's all good, all good.
Even as you said it, more
snow was racing towards us,
breeding in the plains,
cold shavings and ice drops.
"I remember..."
You are surely long gone
from DC now. All those girls
I loved are gone, that job
you told me to forget about,
they fired me for seeing
75 movies at an art house
theater on company time.
It was, of course, all worth it.
They even gutted the building
where we lived. Yet I still
recall the three-line poem
you wrote to your lover,
taped to your fridge:
"I am snowing,
I am falling,
I remember."
Best regards in all things,
Evan