On a Bench at the Low Line
Low Line, Shockoe Bottom, Richmond, Virginia. Visited on May 13, 2021.
I think of you in the afternoon, as I wander from our apartment to the Low Line. I sit on the bench closest to the start of the Capital Trail, the bench sponsored by
THE KELLEY FAMILY OF VIRGINIA
A couple girls in jumpsuits walk their dogs. Four geese and a half-dozen of their still-more-fuzzy-than-feathery goslings drift in the canal. Above me, a train rests on the tracks. An orange-and-white truck cruises down Dock Street, big font on the side, the words getting closer. It says,
VIRGINIA LINEN SERVICE
A bee hovers over the clover. A dandelion puff lands on my chest. Another breeze carries it away and leaves me in a wake of data. The temperature is a perfect 68 degrees. The air is dry.
A mother and daughter walk by. The girl looks at me. I look at her.
She says,
HELLO
Her mother says,
DON’T SAY HI TO SOMEONE YOU DON’T KNOW
My cheeks are tense. My breath smells like coffee. My spit is viscous. My shoes have holes in the big toes, and the soles are worn down. None of my clothing really fits anymore. I attempt a poem.
When parted lips express breath,
sometimes I barely hear
what you whisper.
Other times you sing,
and I hear you,
so loud, so clear
The train moves. The locomotive drags the first car forward, yanks the slack from the coupling, and it goes BOOM. Wheels screech. The second car follows, and the third, the fourth and so on.
BOOM BOOOM BOOM BOOM … SCREECH SCREECH SCREECH SCREEH
The trail is weirdly empty. Even the geese and goslings have gone away. I’m alone with my thoughts and my notebook.
WHAT IF THE TRAIN FALLS OFF THE TRACK AND LANDS ON ME?
I want you to know it’s okay to feel sad, but don’t obsess over my death. I don’t want you to be haunted. May I remind you we had a good life? Don’t spend the rest of yours wishing I were around.
But if the grief is too much, read this poem. I wrote it for you.
East on Dock Street,
they walk with delight
at the possibility
of what might happen,
of the kind of night
that might unfold. Will it be
good/bad? They don’t know.
Remember that time Dock Street was closed during rush hour and you took a long, winding detour through the neighborhood just to get home? You were already tired and upset from a rough day at work, and the extra commute just made things worse.
We crawled in bed and held each other. You told me about your day, all that you had done, all that you had accomplished, everything you had faced and overcome. You said you felt better and asked about my day. I said,
I HAD A SATISFYING SHIT THIS AFTERNOON
Our love is mature, our humor juvenile. Some people don’t get it, wouldn’t want it, can’t stand it, but you and I know what it means to laugh with each other. There’s pretty much nothing we can’t talk about. And that’s what I’ll miss most. Holding each other at the end of the day while we talk.
Here’s another poem for you.
We’ll be over and under
each other, later. For now,
we read books in bed,
side by side, naked
underneath our clothes.
After they’ve removed the debris of the fallen train, I wouldn’t mind if the city or the rail company paid for a memorial. I suggest a metal sculpture in my likeness sitting on a new bench donated by the Kelley Family of Virginia. Bruno Lucchesi would be my choice to sculpt the figure. Make sure he puts a pen and notebook in my hand.
When it’s done, I invite you and everyone who reads this to sit beside my representation and take a selfie. Then pull out your notebook and write something. Look into my immovable face and write with me. Lean in close.