I am standing in the field. The field where he died. The field where, for a time, I wished I had died. Sometimes still do.
This photo he took of the field was humbling. Ground-level. Weeds blowing. A branch sticking up. Forked. On that day he was forked. And I was blown. Blown flat.
Shit, guys, that sounds so dumb, doesn't it. I meant to write it on a postcard. I meant to get this photo printed -- Snapfish or something -- and have them sent to me glossy. And get one of those fine Sharpies and scribble the notes on the back. But I'd have to write each one. And maybe by the end I wouldn't have the courage any longer.
I'm still not sure I will have the courage.
I wondered if -- if I decided coming back here, ten years later, that I was still blown over, and that now I am forked -- if I could tape the notes in a little baggie and safety-pin them to my body. Like that Russian submariner back then. Ten years ago, that would be. Or something. Dumb thought. His friends didn't die in a field. And he didn't either. Just a lonely, lonely wasteland.
So I'm writing this by email. On my phone. Who would have thought, ten years ago? I wouldn't. I was still on Sharpies.
So, I'm going to sit here. Not glossy. Not fancy. Not repeating myself to write over and over. Although I am, am I not?
Because I'm here. I'm forked. I'm lying down, and seeing the grass wave. And I wondered why he didn't have the courage. And why *I* did have it. And whether I have it now or not. And: what that courage would mean here.
Dear friends. I'm going to hit "Send". Then lie down and see the grass from the ground. And find the courage.