Writing down the memories

It was almost an obsession of mine to get my Paul memories written down. I even wrote poems and journal entries about how I went about it. And fortunately I did write them down because a lot of that material ended up in my memoir, Leaving the Hall Light On.

Memory List

I’m making a memory list.

I don’t want to forget my son Paul,

So I’m writing down all the things

I can think of that were unique to him.

I keep grabbing, scratching

my bony claws at the surface of my brain

to remember, to rediscover, to reconnect with

how he looked, what he said,

what he did, how he did it.

I am continually searching for

little mannerisms that were so Paul.

I keep adding to it

I keep going back to it

I keep rereading it

I keep editing it,

so I don’t duplicate what’s already on it.

But, hey, I know a little list

of things he did or said

isn’t going to bring him back to me.

That’s the truth.

You should have seen him.

He walked so fast

like the rest of the New Yorkers.

I had to run to keep up with him.

My dad was like that too.

My dad was so in love with Paul.

I can still see them.

Paul perched on my dad’s lap

gazing into each others eyes

with proud grandpa and grandson

grins on their faces.

Maybe they are up there in heaven

taking long fast walks together.

Probably not, but

I'd like to believe that anyway.

Dad with Paul, 1973 

“I want to watch a record,” he would say

as he lay down on the tattered red and black couch

for his afternoon nap,

then much too young to differentiate

between watching and listening.

He was mesmerized by music even then,

calling out from his car seat,

“More Cat Stevens, Mommy,”

and singing “Oh, Baby, Baby, it’s a wild world”

along with the tape.

He sat in that car seat, sucking his fingers

when he wasn’t singing

and holding on to his stuffed green turtle

he loved so hard

we bought a six pack of them

so we could, in good conscience,

throw the old worn ones away.

 Paul and the turtle, at about one year

It came as no surprise he became a musician.

He started out with a sax, then piano,

then an electronic keyboard.

He taught himself how to play the guitar.

He could play almost any tune by ear

and never had my problem memorizing a piece.

By the end of his first year of piano lessons

he played “Chariots of Fire” in a recital.

His music brought him to New York

to study jazz at The New School.

He loved New York: the cold weather, 
the fast pace, the dives, the Indian food,

the subways, the walkups, the late nights,

and the freedom to come and go anytime,

anywhere he pleased.

He was a loner and he fit right in

with the other talented loners there.

That is until he got sick.

Then he became afraid of New York.

He hated the sirens, he feared

people were poisoning his cigarettes and drinks,

he thought the Mafia was out

to hurt his girlfriend,

He saw hit men lurking in doorways

and he began running away.

One year he went back and forth

between New York and Los Angeles four times.

One time he walked from the lower East side

across the George Washington bridge

into New Jersey – just

to get out of the city.

Another time he took a bus

from Los Angeles to Ensenada

and spent the night in a Denny’s

because he didn’t have enough money

to get a room.

But he couldn’t escape.

No matter how many pairs

of brown Doc Martin shoes

he wore out,

he couldn’t walk away from

what was going on in his head.

The music he heard as a little boy

became his demon.

The familiar strains of Cat Stevens

and his beloved John Lennon

became the menacing voices

that told him to kill himself.

So, now I’m making a list of memories.

It keeps growing larger and larger

as one memory begets another

and another

and another.

2001