Please Talk about Me When I'm Gone

Epilogue: Concordance

Be thou, Spirit fierce,

My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

He stands alone by the lake, thinking about all he had seen, about what had happened, and what was going to happen.

You can't go home again, the saying goes.

Of course you can: all you have to do is never leave. Or: leaving it behind doesn't mean it leaves you. And certainly he can't be the only grown child (he thinks) who returns often-in dreams, in memories, and, of course, in his mind: earnestly, often-to the old streets he came to outgrow the way we outgrow games and bikes and friends and exchange them for jobs and cars and coworkers. Home is where you make it (he knows) but it is also what makes you.

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,

Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;

And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth

Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!

He hears all the voices from his life: his own, his mother's, family, friends, the old ghosts, the things he has read and listened to, and, as always, the one he received as much as discerned; the one that awakened him in the middle of the night, urging him (sometimes gently, sometimes sternly) to stay awake, to stay alive; the one he had, at times, been afraid to fully understand or embrace; the one he could acknowledge, at last, he should be afraid if he could no longer hear.

He had felt the despair of loss, experienced the ambivalence of isolation, seethed at the injustice of the dispossessed, cultivated a faith he could declare and, above all, longed for peace. Finally, he could appreciate that his peace lay in having a purpose, in finding ways to accomplish the work that needed to be done-for his sake and for the sake of the ones who never had the chance, or a voice. Silence, he knew, was death, defeat. The voices spoke to him-and through him-reminding him that he was not alone. He would never be alone.

Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

He thinks about his life.

Silently he stands, the same child who had once looked up at the stars, scattered like bread crumbs in the dark air, wondering if they really led to a kingdom beyond the clouds.

As always, he thinks about his family, his friends, all the heroes who had created the art that made life more worth living, the places and feelings that comprised all the pain and profundity of existence. All the questions that belonged without answers: all of this was inside. So as long as he lived, and made himself remember, they never ceased to be.

He looks out on the water, at his face, which reflects up into the evening, looking down and seeing the world in itself.

Then the mirror implodes as he walks forward, leaving his shirt and shoes on shore. He strides into the dark, warm water, making his way toward the middle of the lake and diving deep, not stopping until his hands touch the bottom, gripping the cold marrow of murky mud.

Moments later he emerges, sucking in the air as though he had never tasted life before, as though he were breathing for the first time.