There’s nothing I can write that you don’t already know. That is not to mean that this is worthless drivel, only that our shared time together covered everything. The entire expanse of human emotion and expression was a reciprocal open door of sharing. Now that I no longer have you in my life, I cannot share with you, the things I once was able.
It is quite painful having so much of you locked in my mind, to the point that I could create a binary copy of you. Akin to the mythology of the phoenix, you could rise from your own ashes and speak to me once again and tell me “this too shall pass.” However, my memories are not you- nothing will ever be you. You were far too unique to be duplicated in any fashion. Even as I write songs about you, I wonder which piece of you is being placed into them, and ask myself questions. Would you approve? Would you enjoy it?
If there is anything after this, then you know I discovered your “angel” and will continue to protect, provide and love her. If you could know that, then you know that Gabriel remembers you, still. If my rationale is sound, then the more people who remember you, the more of you exists and will live forever.
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.
Diane S. Kowalewski
September 19, 1952 – June 25, 2012