For Fred

I didn't really know you, Fred.

All I know is being 18 at once; Montreal trees blurring past us. Green and wide with waving richness..breezes..

Riding in the car.

I know St. Jean Baptiste and you were there, too. Running through the park, limbs sinew and stretching through the air. I sat and watched you all with folded legs in shyness, taking in your revelry. Your happiness rubbing and infecting me, making my eyes wide. Making my grin crooked, crooking my arm to drink. We were all 18 and drunk with youth and whiskey and life.

Sunshine in the park. Raise a toast.


I didn't know you, Fred. Your last name, your face perhaps. I know you only by snippets. Conversations with Jeremy.
I know you were good. You ran rivulets of yourself all over their stories and pictures, tinting them with wideness. You were smiling in every one.


What memory is mine alone, dear Fred, is the way your name sounded. On the porch at Mathieu's, swinging and eating roast beef and Hellmans and talking about the island.
Summertime.
Your name comes out of his mouth like Everest, and it sounds like happiness. Your name is all in uppercase. It is full and smooth like thick blades of grass, green and shooting out of the earth like sinew, and I when I look at him I can see your name there, right beyond his mouth. It floats like breath on a window, warm and triumphant against sharp, cold edges. Ready to be written on. To write upon. Endless volumes lay within your name, green and warm and vibrant on the breath of your friend.

Dear Mathieu, he says your name, and his whole body seems to smile .