I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD
APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
TS Eliot was wrong. May, not April, is the cruelest month.
Three years ago this week a friend of mine died long before his considerable talent and beautiful soul had any right to leave behind the rest of us. I will not canonize him; he was a man, prone to the folly and frailty of men, no more and no less than others. But his soul…such a soul set him apart from nearly everyone, raised him head and arms above, piercing the darkness of our world with his always ready, engaging grin.
Few people in the world have the courage and inclusive, graceful heart required to remain open to -and for- everyone. To expose all of himself to everyone and welcome them to do the same, because it was safe with him. To live without pretense, without facades, without a mask. Tom did. Whether he knew you for ten minutes or ten years, he gave that same, sunny crinkly black-eyed look of mischief and dimpled widemouthed grin as if it were a gift, just for you. And, it was – the gift of open optimism, of inclusion, of letting you know that he thought you were someone worth knowing. All of this, just with his warm smile.
And then, out came the pictures. Always.
The first time we met, in a bar high in the Berkshires of Western Mass., the room enshrouded in darkness as thick as ebony butter, he whipped out his wallet and photos the way a furtive mugger would pull his gun. “Look, here are my kids!,” he said, proudly, letting the entire roll of pictures just unfurl. An entire wallet full of his two children, various ages, doing various things, that I could hardly make out in the lousy lighting. “Can’t really see them,” I admitted. He kept talking, over the jukebox during break. “I can’t really hear you,” I said. At that point, he grabbed my arm and rushed me out the door like a bouncer. Then we went through the entire process…all over again, while we continued to smoke.
From then on, we were fast friends. It really was just like the movies.
The last of a dying breed, we called ourselves. He smoked as much as I did. No, he argued, probably more. Whenever I’d visit Catharine, he’d come over for dinner. We would talk on the phone sometimes, planning this concert to attend, or that event. None of it ever came to pass, but he never forgot any of the things we planned, and, he never stopped planning them. And he was always, always the same sunny, easygoing, friendly guy who had a kind word to say about everyone he met.
“There’s something about Anne. I don’t know what it is, exactly…but there’s just something about her ” he once told Catherine’s husband, Jerry, when they were in the Ben Jamin’ band together. This was as close as he got to admitting to Jer, who he looked up to like a brother, that he actually had feelings for me.
Neither Cath or Jerry encouraged our association beyond friendship; Tom led the life of a typical musician, much of which was hinted at but never stated aloud. He also moved around – a lot. From Pittsfield to Phoenix to somewhere in the southeast for a few years, his happy-go-lucky wanderlust never kept him in one spot for too long. But we were friends, and that was just fine.
In May 2005 cancer won and Tom lost. On the last day of his life, after a really long and painful battle, he asked his family to put on Ben Jamin and, closing his eyes, he listened to the entire cd play with that typical Tom smile of goodwill and acceptance. And then he was gone. Just 40 years old, his talent and soul taken from us long before they had a right to go.
But this is not my place to say on such matters. For who am I before God? Just a lowly underling, a small voice in a vast wilderness who can only play by the rules – not create them. I only know that I miss him, a light so benevolent and bright, a person who embraced everyone he met for exactly who they were, guilelessly and lovingly. I only know that the world became a much colder, crueler place that year– in May, not April.
Edit: Each year at this time I go back to the newspaper that carried his obituary and purchase a 24-hour viewing of his guest book. This entry, from his brother, is one of the main reasons I return. It carries the essence of Tom much better than I could ever hope to convey:
Thoughts for Tom
I’d like to say a few words about Tom. A few weeks ago, one afternoon when we were alone in our room, Tom had decided to get out of bed. He was having a particularly bad time of it, and struggled mightily to get to his feet. I watched from across the room, because I had already been scolded for helping him too much. Tom had the most determined face on him at that moment. He was trying to will his body to do something that it was truly unable to achieve. Finally I couldn’t bear it any longer. He sat there and spoke to himself with the most encouraging words that I have heard in my life. “Come on Tom” he said in a soft voice.
I got up and went to him. I put my arms around him and we embraced. Together we sat there and sobbed like little schoolgirls for what seemed to be forever. Finally he looked into my eyes. His look was one of the warmth and caring of an angel. I was compelled to say something, which shouldn’t surprise any of you.
I told him “I’m sorry”.. Tom said that I shouldn’t apologize to him. I disagreed. I said “As I watch you fight, it looks to me like your running up this steep hill. This steepest hill I ever seen, and your just busting up it like its nothing”.. He smiled. I said “I’m sorry for me, and everyone, because we are asking you to slow down” “We just can’t keep up”..
This is the story of Tom. In a time of terrible tragedy, when Tom needed our support the most, he was giving support to us. He did whatever we needed to keep up with him. When he left Phoenix, and came home to the welcome arms of his family, I sat in Washington wondering who was going to help me. I told him so. He understood.. I learned that I need not always do something to help, but can be just as helpful by receiving the help of others. It was more comforting than he will ever know.
Tom did suffer during his final days. But through it all, he finished the business that he was meant to complete on this earth. He gave so much to us all. He taught me that a man with cancer has little use for small talk.. Boy don’t say goodbye ever to anyone with cancer.. He taught me to say everything you need to say, with as few words a possible, and always end the conversation with “Love ya”.
Love ya Tom. Those words ring loud in our ears. For he truly meant everything He ever said to us..”
