Bright Spots in Depressed Lives
Remembering the dead. Three friends who lived with depression. There were bright times which were not pretend.
1.
You told me that since you were such a large man you had to learn to make your voice less deep.
You spoke your real voice with me and I was not afraid or put off. It was a rich and booming sound punctuated with powerful laughter.
You spent your adult life injuring your vocal cords and slouching, pulling your big shoulders down to put others at ease. Hiding someone strangers might find too strong, too boisterous.
You hid that sense of humor, too, the one worthy of a bratty brother. Sure, I’ll take a good look at your smashed fingers while we’re eating. Dangle that stitched up hand right over the coleslaw. I think you loved it that I’d double down, asking for a closer look. That glint in your eye was a hint you were up to something. I can see it right now.
I’m glad you were yourself with me.
It’s hard to believe you’re dead.
2.
You had so much strength and vivacious energy it was hard to avoid being caught up in your world of bright colors.
Your eyes lit up when I said I wasn’t much into shopping for clothing. I’m still not. But watching the joy you took in imagining me dressed in rainbows and glitter was worth it.
I still wear black and white and grey, but I think of you dressing me up like a shop mannequin, silk pocket squares and movie-star scarves. I want to call to ask about suit jackets and your wild adventures this week.
It’s hard to believe you’re dead.
3.
Usually, I get frustrated and impatient talking about philosophy, but your head was so full of wonderful twists and new thoughts, the sun rose more than once on our ‘nighttime’ talks.
It’s still hard to believe you came to me for help on your thesis. You trusted me to help unravel some of the sentences, and I remembered how often you used to say “yes, yes, I understand” while I’d say “your professor needs to understand, too” and we’d laugh.
Who knew the undergrad would be of any help? You did. I’m glad we met, became nocturnal friends who loved thinking.
I look for books of yours, wondering how you like your editors and if you give them fits, then I remember. Those thoughts did not all reach the world.
It’s hard to believe you’re dead.