Laurie would have laughed.
But he's gone. He died Saturday night. He won't laugh at my critters, nor watch his garden bloom. He won't be bringing me spiders in pill bottles. He won't be taking more photos of Mount Baker across the water, or peering into tidepools, or leading parades of hungry mallards at Reifel Island. Or rousting me out of my morning doldrums to "go a-jaunting."
Hey luv let us go a-jaunting o(One of his poems, mmix)
when the red-cheeked sun
in her walking-out attire
rises laughing over the horizon
scooting by watchful hawk and eagle
down to the jaunty seagull's hangout
rocky shore sandy beach weedy marge
where tireless tide's urge to push and pull
from bygone sagacity rules
poseidon's fishy realm and aphrodite's foamy origin
where awareness begat sentiency
yes our home too: briny and ozone
whose thriving presence invigorates
while we alert and observant poke and peer
thrilled and often chilled never want for wonder
for this is a force beholden to no-one
and like love provides and demands
generous and severe
|Always looking onward. He didn't face the camera often.|
|And when he did, he was usually clowning.|
I have been touched and comforted by the messages you have sent me, here, on Facebook, on Twitter, and in "meat space" with letters and hugs and a card shoved under my door tonight. Thank you all!
While Laurie was still with me, I passed on your messages to him. He didn't say much; he was beyond much talking, but he smiled.