3 May 2020. And Peter.
Well, you can't want these things too much. After all, who's judging, now? Not my dear brother himself--he'd probably lift an eyebrow at the dear, although inside he'd like it. Maybe C--she always says his name softly, with her particular lilt--Pee-tah--bringing him back in that way each time...
And it is a matter of bringing him back--now that it's been twenty years, a little more. This very month, May 10, when Shelley called me, told me I needed to come...
So, we had those four months. Yes, it was a choice. I packed up my paints, right at the end of school, put them in a bag, got on the plane. Seemed so necessary--what else could I have done? But sometimes necessity verges on miracle... How did C put it, in the hospital room, He can come and live with me...
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A generosity of spirit. Yes, we must love each other...
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Note: Shelly, a long-time friend, from high school and before. The last words are from the Auden poem, We must love each other or die. He took them out at one point--thought them untrue. But these truths have a way of shifting back and forth...
