If you’re reading this Cody Graham, I’m working on it. You know, “the book,” the one you asked me to dedicate to you in our high school writing class? I’m nearing 43 years old now. Words scattered about in various journals, boxes, notes on my phone, the google drive.You can see it on my body, a manuscript manifest as children, getting off Prozac, laugh lines. I guess this means you’re about 43, too! Are your dreams panning out? Are you still as kind as I remember? Friendship was easy with you, I know I wasn’t the only person who felt this. You came up with a name for my novel, something about the sun and writing from the perspective of both hemispheres. You loved that I had moved from New Zealand to Canada, and all my writing seemed to be about that back then. I still haven’t been home and there’s a deep pain in that. It’s not the whole story though, I can go there in my mind, just like I’m doing now. Back to high school. Back to a time when a friend believed in me, a friend who knew I was coming apart, despite the smiles. Back then, my grief poured out in poems, it didn’t have any other way. You’ll forgive me as I reminisce, conjure the memory of you, a time when someone believed in me when I needed it more than anything else. Life’s funny that way. We carry around memories for years, as if we need to save them for a rainy day. My grief finds that old familiar way today: a poem, dedicated to you.
Found Poem: I'm 42 years old now, friend you can see it written on my body a manuscript of a beautiful life a manifestion of both grief and joy I saved the memory of you for this rainy day it pours out in poems