POETRY
Cold Reality (Dan’s Song)
by T. Wright
Jefferson, MD 18 Nov 2000 (Copyright)
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Dear Dan:
This is my second letter
I’ve written since you’ve gone away.
It’s now a song in my repertoire
so even more can here me say
how the opportunity to bless you
has meant so much to me
and I was glad I could warm
your cold reality.

I was challenged and privileged that day
to take a contrary stand.
With every statistic I hear today,
still seeing a slight, bespectacled,
tired yet smiling, fifty-year old man.
Longingly, I want to eliminate the numbers
on the Metro billboards I read.
Oh, how I want to find a cure to
this cold reality.

I was asked if I gave you my address
so you could send money for the clothes.
But I never had such a thought,
still numbing me to my bones.

I was derided for being such a soft touch
and if there was money that I gave.
But I was not as soft as the touch
you gave my face
for "I was a beautiful man," you said.
Disarmed yet replying rapidly,
not wanting to defraud,
reminded you of my reality,
for that beauty was of God.

I sensed your departure was final
and for the short time we spent
in the chill terminal lobby
discerned an opportunity heaven sent.

Yet there was disbelief
from the airline counter and to their icy stares
I held to a stronger belief as I told you,
"I want to see you up there."
And as the state trooper returned
to ensure your travel plans were met,
we hugged each other at the counter
and as you left, I wept.
 For you see it was not as brothers
when first I saw you there
(me waiting for Canadian connections,
bags pack for seal-covered, ice floes
and arctic air).

The Massachusetts State Trooper
escorting when you arrived,
and you wrapped in a hotel blanket,
with little else except Spandex cyclist’s shorts,
running shoes and a thin windbreaker–
with no bike insight.

I wanted to keep my distance,
as your sneezing increased.
Ashamedly, I thought,
"Man, I hope I don’t catch his disease."
And as I analyzed the situation,
"What if he touches me?"
I screwed my courage up,
reminded of the First Lady
holding a District AIDS baby,
tenderly, giving her motherly love.

So I engaged you in conversation
and you told me how you arrived
at Boston’s Logan Airport
and your current state of life.
I was shocked at your younger exploits,
and the medical warnings you’d received.
And how they went unheeded.
Disturbed, noticing your nipple rings,
but I understood your desire to flee
and your cold reality.

You were very open,
we shared some fresh fruit
packed for my family’s trip.
I marveling at your zeal
to leave warmer San Diego
for frostier Maine’s fellowship.

You went off to the restroom
and I had some time to think,
"What can I do for this man?
What can he do for me?
How can I show I understand
his cold reality?"

Thought I’d offer you some clothing
from my bulging flight kit bag–
a long sleeve shirt and jeans–
for there was so much I had.
 I now felt so compelled, however, more at ease
I had to show you that I cared and to me,
practice what I preached.
You were so moved by my offer
and the navy shirt fit you to a Tee.
And you were so funny when you returned
from changing into my jeans,
and I laughed at your comment
people would mistake you for me.
And yes, it had actually happened,
I had warmed your cold reality.

I shared a scripture I was reading
for now my spirit was at peace.
You asked for the Bible,
turned to a favorite passage,
but crying your reading ceased.

Well Dan,
the greatest blessing was receiving your letter,
upon returning from your Northeastern roam.
Seems what I’d done for you somehow
had continued on.

For with every time you told of it,
more wardrobe warmth came your way.
I was still hopeful for your health
and yet to tell you, I delayed.

I took your letter with me,
though now I was overseas.
That’s when I peacefully mailed it
and waited anxiously.
But the post office sent me a card
in effect, notifying me that you had died.
And though from early on I knew eventually,
still from this fact, I’d hide.
I was not prepared to face this final cold reality.

Oh, the sorrow of my heart
as I thought I could not respond.
But time has told me not to fret but to carry on.
For like all sailors wishing for fair winds and following seas,
veteran of insurmountable odds and possibilities,
you, Brother Shipmate, have finally and comfortably made it home.
Warmly,
Tomy