Thankfulness, Part Seven

Thankfulness, Part Seven

It Must Be the Irish in You

Mike Burke, do you remember the words we would shout while riding our bikes up and down the streets of Bellingham? (Brace yourself. This may cause a flush of red to your cheeks.) We would scream (mind you, with more fire and brimstone than a southern preacher): "WE'RE KINGS OF THE PERVERTS!" I'm not sure if, at the time, either one of us knew what we were saying. We were 10. What can I say, we made our world adorably ours, even if we didn't fully comprehend it. Sometimes I wonder, "How did we survive?" We were products of loving fathers who used fists and belts to discipline wild children. And as much anger as we traveled through, we are better people today in what we give to the world and our own children.

You taught me a lot, Mike, in those formative years. I was shaped by you. You schooled me on the topic of girls. You had more experience at that sport than me. It took me some significant years to understand what you knew at 11. I was never confident; I was too anxious and strange to even know that I was too anxious and strange. I couldn't compete, in my physical features, with my brother. He was handsome, I was studious and mischievous. In other words, I was a nerd. I never felt that way around you, nor did you ever try to make me feel that way. We were best friends, and we rode our bikes through the neighborhood, finding approachable trouble.

You also brought rock n roll into my life. My memory is very clear on this one. It was on a summer morning, and you had stopped by my house to see if I could come out and play. We were downstairs in my basement, (I had just woken up), and you asked, "What is your favorite song?" At the time, the only songs I knew were religious and church songs. I answered, "Amazing Grace." Little did I know that your next words would set off a chain of events. You huffed, "You don't even know any rock n roll, and your breath stinks!"

Well, two things happened on that day. First, I became obsessed with rock n roll. That Christmas I would get my first three cassettes: Journey 'Escape', Air Supply's 'Greatest Hits', and Quiet Riot 'Mental Health'. My parents allowed me to sign up with Columbia Records, and I accumulated an additional eight cassettes within the next year. That was all my parents bought for me, but within a two year period, I had stolen over 150 cassette tapes from stores. I became obsessed with collecting music. I wanted to know rock n roll, and never again, hear the words, "you don't know".

I don't steal anymore, but my obsessive collecting has followed me throughout the course of my life. I have collected books, movies, beer bottle labels, lighters, fireworks, magazines, knives, baseball cards, postcards, photography, and personal stories from anyone willing to share. I'm sure I'm missing a few other items, but you get the idea.

The second event to happen on that day was me becoming obsessed with breath. I have serious issues around this topic. I love my breath smelling delicious 24 hours per day. If I sense that it is not, I always have a supply of mints or mouthwash on me. It's over the top, but it's me. This thought strikes me as comical as I write it.

There's lots of things for which I can thank you, Mike. I am glad that our paths crossed again in recent years. You were my best friend in our childhood days, and you are one of my dear friends now. I accept you, even though you are a Red Sox fan. In other words, I accept your shortcomings, too.

Una Pedreschi, there's so much I can say, but the essence of what you have meant to me on this planet is quite difficult to frame into my own words. Therefore, I call on the spirit of e.e. cummings to get me started:

"somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands"

Our connection started in 2006 -- wow! Just writing those words moved me. We spent an entire year, (almost every night), speaking on the phone. I was in New Jersey, you were home in Ireland. You were (and I suppose in some ways, you still are) a conduit for my vulnerability, helping it to find refuge and expression within me. I'm not sure if I ever told you this story, but it is worth repeating now. When I was a boy between the ages of 9-13 there were a handful of heated moments between my mom and dad that were more extraordinary than their typical arguments. These conflicts can still make me shudder. On a couple of them, my mother would leave the house in a fit a rage in order to cool down. But it's what she would say while leaving that has left deep scars in me. I can hear the shrill in her voice as her body would shake: "I wish I could just die and leave all of you to fend for yourselves." I remember the tears falling freely from my eyes, and I remember my subconscious promise -- I would never let another woman hurt me in that manner again. I would never make myself that vulnerable to another woman.

Then you came along, and you opened me up, piece by piece. Ah, the Irish muse and soul singer. I opened my heart to you, and it was beautiful. And it was painful. And it was rewarding. And it brought joy. And it was tragic. And it was alive and enormous.

Then you left, as I knew from the start that you would. That was a part of the script, embedded in the magic of the moment. I never anticipated the immediate and defined disconnection, though; I wasn't prepared for losing all of you so suddenly. It troubled me deeper than any of my previous relationships. I was unsettled and dangerously unwell, as Ani DiFranco's, Independence Day lyrics kept haunting me:

"So many sheep I quit counting
Sleepless and embarrassed about the way that I feel
Trying to make mole hills out of mountains
Building base camp at the bottom of a really big deal
Did I ever tell you how I stopped eating
When you stopped calling me?
And I was cramped up shitting rivers for weeks
And pretending that I was finally free"

It took me almost a year to heal. I am stronger, slightly more guarded, now. You were and are a great guide in my life. I am grateful for your touch in and on my life. I do not hold onto the pain of what I felt back then. I am struck by our bravery. I allowed vulnerability to cloak me, welcoming you to get that close, that embedded, in me. You were courageous enough to open your heart in a larger capacity than you thought was possible at that time. Thank you, Una. I am more because of you. Your beautiful self has made both of us more beautiful.