Recently, I finished your collection of poems. Sitting in my hotel room alone, I read the last three poems out loud many times. The last two poems are the same poem, written in Spanish and written in English. My Spanish is rusty, but my audience did not complain.
I had this day to myself. My son, who came with me on this trip to attend a day-long college tour, left the hotel room early to get breakfast before the tour began. He has narrowed his choices down to this college and one other. This trip was originally going to be just one evening, I wasn’t planning to stay overnight. But my son had an opportunity to see this school, so I proposed that he come with me, we get a hotel room and he could explore the town on his own while I hung out with my friend in the evening, the original purpose of the trip. My son liked this idea. He likes this city. He likes exploring and his independence. We arrived and checked into the hotel. I confirmed my plans with my friend. I would meet him and we would get dinner before attending our concert.
That night was much fun. I was able to spend time with my old friend, we caught up on our lives, shared a great meal and some drinks before going to hear some incredible, passionate music. Also, I got to watch my friend, the happiest I have seen him, let loose and get taken over by the music. This all gave me joy.
The next morning, after my son left, I was able to meander a bit before exercising in the hotel gym. I showered, drank coffee in my hotel room and read your poems. After which, I walked to an oyster bar for lunch. It was a beautiful spring day and the walk was about twenty minutes each way, so it was my opportunity to independently explore this city. Sitting at the bar during lunch, I struck up a conversation with the bartender. It turns out that she used to live in my neighborhood a few years ago before moving to this city. After lunch, I wandered the bookshelves of a local bookstore. With my new books and full belly, I waited for my son at the hotel lobby.
My son and I departed that city in the afternoon and drove on to another city that was not our own. He told me about his tour and his evening. The restaurant seated him at the bar, which surprised and delighted him. An acknowledgment of adulthood. I told him about mine, watching my friend walk right up to the front of the stage and start dancing with all his heart to the music that was played. In the car, my son and I played music that we both enjoy, taking turns choosing, listening in silence. And that, too, is a part of a very fulfilling day. A warmth has come over me typing this. I love my children more than anything. (My daughter and her girlfriend introduced me to your poems, having read one in their literature class.) The opportunity to share as many experiences with them as they will allow means the world to me.
Every time I read a poem from your book, it was like opening a door into a warm nostalgia of the greens and blues of my youth. I grew up in the same city as you. We are close to the same age. The City of Our Youth is so influenced by its neighbor ninety miles to the South, and I felt that in your poems. I felt you remembering, through your family’s stories and nostalgia. Uncertain if you, yourself, have memories from that place from your own childhood, or only from returning as an adult. I feel that separation, being once removed, allows the edges to become fluid and amorphous. This allows the experience to shift between memory and something else altogether, something beautiful.
I felt the need to write you to thank you for your poems. For opening the door to my own memories; for reminding me of the loves and experiences of my youth. For reminding me of my father, the party-thrower, the joke-teller, the popcorn-eater, when he was young and still married to my mother, and still had joy. I wanted to thank you for the opportunity to read your words out loud, and for it to be a part of my day, as I set out for minor adventures in search of salty oysters and springtime and so much more.
