And, ANOTHER thing…

we’re living life and looking for the balance that comes with the trauma itself and the lives lived in its aftermath.  Surely, there is that point where one can feel the seesaw righting itself.  On the one end, there’s the event, and on the other, there’s the time, energy, and hope that sets the plank on an even keel.  We’re not there yet, but hope gives us…well, hope, that the plank will eventually reveal that balance.

Did ya get that?  I barely did.  But, somewhere in my head, it makes sense.

All of our lives are moving forward daily, and though we see changes – some we can barely fathom – we know that nothing remains constant except…change.  Well, freakin’ duh.  

On July 2, I called Lea for one of our many morning calls, and she was standing in front of Fantasia, the coffeehouse where we spent so many hours talking, drinking coffee, and waiting for Owen to show up.  He most often did.  She said, “Fantasia is closed.”  I replied, “Well, what time do they open?”  She said, “No.  They’re closed, as in out-of-business.”  I was devastated.  We both started crying.  Neither of us could say the words immediately.

“We spent so much time there.  Owen’s Bellingham memorial service was there.”  I spoke those words (or something close) and our pauses were evidence that this thing that had changed was yet another visible reminder that we would never revisit our communal haunts in the same way.  She spoke in broken sentences, talking to passersby, while I remained on the phone, listening for some indication that what she’d told me wasn’t what she’d told me.  But, she did.  She said, “Fantasia is closed.”  

A reporter from the Bellingham Herald greeted her on the sidewalk, and I heard her talking about what the place meant to her.  Just the Sunday prior, Lea had hung her artwork on those walls, had arranged for a month of wall space – for interested folks to view her work.  She had 16 paintings hanging on those walls where so many of us had spent early afternoons, early evenings, talking about what’s next.  And, so often, we’d met Nat and Owen there, so often, we’d congregated on the sidewalk out front to smoke a cigarette or two, and talk about just that…what’s next? 

After Owen’s memorial service here in California, I traveled north to spend an afternoon with his friends in Bellingham, to say our collective goodbyes – at Fantasia.  I’ll never forget the feel of the place.  I’ll never forget the days and nights when we drove by to see if he was there, gathered with his friends in search of caffeine and conversation.  And, I’ll never forget that on July 2, 2008, 13 months after his body was found in the Petaluma River, Fantasia closed.

Everything changes.  Everything that is, but our memories.  Maybe someday our memories will change, too. I hope not.  I hope our memories of the old days will remain forever emblazoned on our brains, our hearts, and scorched into the long dissent of Northwestern summer sunsets, drenched with the smells of brewing coffee, the familiar sounds of shared laughter, the picks and strums of acoustic guitars, and the soft glow of candles lit for a lost friend, a brother, a godson, a son.

Song for the night:  Change, Tracy Chapman

http://youtube.com/watch?v=s448Vvx2J7w

~ by Linda on July 8, 2008.