I didn’t know him well.
Though we both volunteered at KHSU.
He, folk music. Me, poetry.
And some might think this would be enough
to bond. But it wasn’t. And it didn’t.
Until I learned we both loved Italy.
Especially Rome. He, Trastevere.
Me, with only two short stays
in hotels downtown
and once in a short-term rental
on the opposite side of the city.
But the subways were great.
As were the buses.
And there was plenty to see.
Everywhere. It was deep,
old and overwhelming
As was our last meeting
in the hospital parking lot.
He, coming out. Me, going in.
And though I looked familiar,
he didn’t remember my name.
But who does? And who really cares?
I could see the recognition on his face.
Older. Deeper. And overwhelming.
But I won’t be at his memorial service.
Though I did get an invitation.
Because I went to the estate sale,
asked if there would be one
and was handed a signup sheet.
Which I signed. And when the invitation arrived,
I promptly forwarded it to everyone
I knew who had known Brooks,
knowing that many did.
He was loved, valued and now missed.
But I didn’t know the event was only
for those who knew him well.
And like I said I didn’t know him well.
But had we met in la citta
on Via Veneto or the Borghese
or even in the Vatican,
I think we would have had fun together
and grown even closer than we were.
— Vincent Peloso
This article appears in Corkscrew Trees and a Crooked Trail.
