Choking on Goodbyes Again

we've got 
two more miles to go
before the sun
erases the night. 

let's break away
from 
the madness
for awhile.

let's silent
the 
future. 

if we stare at the highway
a little bit
longer
the headlights will 
lead
us
home. 

my friend,
we're almost 
sleeping. 

and tomorrow's 
still
our burden.  

maybe we pay for 
our sins
eventually.

or maybe
they just turn
us gray.

that's probably 
why people stare at rainbows.

stay with me
for one more
drink. 

then I'll say
the
damn word. 

New Hampshire

I'm in Georgia

now.

far from home,
like you.

were there gates when you arrived?
we learned about
them as kids.

it's getting warmer
and
the sun's still
shining.

I've been saying
my prayers
more and more now,
those ones
we learned together
as kids.

tell me,
have you found
your peace
in
New Hampshire?

I hope it rains
soon.

I hope it rains
a lot.

was it cold that night?

were the
stars even out?

I guess even good Catholic boys
miss Easter mass sometimes. 

I'm still in Georgia.
I've been listening to jazz
and sending cigarette smoke
your
way.

tell me,
is your heart still
laughing?

Why Cliches Are Actually Okay

For PH

I’ve always hated clichés.

There is usually a better, more original way to express one’s self before falling victim to an overused saying. However, those damn clichés always seem to come up in conversation when you just don’t have time to think. Low battery on your iPhone? Dead as a doornail. Problem with someone? You have a bone to pick with them. The least bit hopeful? Don’t count you’re chickens, my friend.

But my feelings toward clichés changed in mid-April after a friend of mine died. Patrick was only 23 when his life was cut short from the disease of drug addiction. I know, even the details read like a cliché. However, Patrick’s life was far from that.

Patrick was all about the unexpected. In fifth grade, he snuck up behind me, wrapped his arm around my neck, and began to sing “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls (this was in 2001…five years after the song was popular). Whenever someone would get into a fight with Patrick, who mostly came out on the losing end of a beating, he would laugh uncontrollably. And even with an unconventional running style and bones like glass (he once had casts on both arms at the same time); he was an impressive force on the basketball court, which is where my friendship with him grew over multiple years of being teammates. 

Patrick and I went to different high schools, but that didn’t affect much. Once in college, the highlights of coming home on break were always seeing Patrick out or getting together for a basketball game. I saw Patrick only a few times during the last year of his life. Last summer after I graduated from Penn State, I stayed in State College for the summer for an internship. I was beyond ecstatic when I heard Patrick was coming to town for the weekend party event Artsfest. At around 10 p.m. on a Saturday, we were watching a band perform in the street and dancing (Patrick was going the hardest). A few minutes later, he was right next to the stage with a young woman who was so skilled at hula-hooping that she was actually making some money. Patrick watched her in awe, then he picked up an extra hula hoop and tried like hell to keep it up, but it continually fell to the ground. I had never seen a 22 year old man enjoy himself so much while failing at a child’s activity. We went back to a friend’s house and laughed for a few more hours together. 

Laughing with him was one of my favorite pastimes. 

Perhaps the most amazing aspect of Patrick is how much you could love and hate him at the same time. He forced you out of your comfort zone by pointing out your insecurities and making you confront them. Other than my parents, Patrick has been an extremely important part of shaping who I am (I believe many others would say the same). On Monday, you loved him. Tuesday, he had you laughing hysterically. On Wednesday, Patrick was under your skin. On Thursday, you wanted to hit him (and probably did). And, even more amazing, Patrick could have you feeling all of those emotions during one weekend. The most rewarding feeling was always amusement, though, and the laughter came even after his death.

I had heard the clichés that accompany someone’s passing many times before, but I never understood them. I never understood the comfort they bring to those grieving a loved one. Patrick’s viewing and funeral were hotbeds for every death cliché imaginable: “He’s in a better place.” “I wish we had more time.” “I’d give anything to see him again.” 

And those were just the ones coming from my mouth.

It became evident a day or two after I heard the news that Patrick’s death was one last surprise in a life soaked in unpredictability. Hours after his funeral, a group of people were trading stories about Patrick outside. I could feel tears beginning to form and in what might have been one of the most clichéd scenes ever I broke away from the group, looked toward the night sky, and whispered gently, “I just don’t get it.”

I then began to cry a river. Cliché intended.