And Then a Poppy Blooms
Death comes like a thief in the night, stealing everything you cherish.
I just found out a beloved friend of 30 years passed away quickly. I was thinking it was about time we had our yearly coffee chat. I emailed and got the shocking news.
Karl died after falling, a sudden death with a brain concussion. I’m staring out the window, stunned. I’ve been sitting here an hour now, unable to move. It’s so strange to get old. It’s even more shocking to lose friends who suddenly disappear from the Earth.
Death seems to disappear distance for a while, and suddenly, the loved one is present. He seems to be in the space surrounding me, or maybe sitting right here. Even though we didn’t talk regularly, the connection feels as close as if he and I just met to talk and laugh yesterday. It’s as if time shrinks when someone you love dies.
Suddenly, all the moments we were schmoozing, shooting the breeze, talking a blue streak, the afternoons we scrunched our foreheads over political upheavals, all the unexpected, sudden uproarious laughs – they appear still here, happening right now. I suppose this is shock.
Memory is odd because, out of thousands of coffee dates, walks and drinks, for some unknown reason, the hour I remember most was one in which he snickered and told me about his hilarious dating days, before he met his beloved wife of the last 20 years. Karl had the most honest, wry stories and wit. I can only recall one. A woman wrote him on a dating site saying she was petite, showing him slim, sweet pictures. Then, he said, she showed up almost six-feet-tall and large-framed, like Godzilla with a big tongue. The way he described her kiss, slurping and swallowing his entire face, well, we were both bent over laughing.
Karl was a deep, sensitive, well-read, precious friend, with whom, no matter how sad or serious either of us were, somehow there would always bubble up some kind of kindred, unruly laughter. Though we lived in different towns and met rarely, time did not shift the feeling of our infinity for friendship, our knowing each other, inside and out. I don’t even know how I met Karl, but somehow, from day one, we were friends. It’s another odd, quirky thing about living. Out of dozens of people we interact with, just a few are like magnets to us, and the special ones remain to the end, or maybe beyond.
Karl loved writing and reading Haiku almost as much as his long mornings with coffee, and a good, strong bourbon at night. He always had a journal with him as he went excitedly, from working out at the club to sitting at the coffee shop to write. In his last years, he often cocked his head sideways, scratching his ear, asking, “Why have I stopped writing Haiku?” I’d question, “Do you still love it?” He’d say, “Yes, I’ve always adored it, but I don’t seem to do it anymore.” Then I’d try to encourage him. Perhaps that endeavor was fading along with his years on this earth.
In an odd twist of fate, the handwriting is on the wall now. It’s a reminder that life is short and to keep appreciating our beloved friends – and animals – while we can.
Here’s a haiku for you dear Karl, I hope you can hear it now and chuckle:
I write, erase, rewrite,
Erase again, and then a poppy blooms.
– Katsushika Hokusai)
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