June 5th, 2012

I loved you before I knew what it meant and before society hid its meaning behind veils of sexual taboo. Everything you did was so unashamed and wonderful, and through the voice of glowing blue orbs and golden-eyed Martians, you taught me it was okay to be human. I remember your words spoken from my mother’s mouth, and as I read you now I remember summer nights on the waterbed, grasping at understanding and trailing away on a thought about rockets blazing orange trails across a purpling Waukegan sky. I never knew farm-life or religion, but I knew that both could be beautiful and dangerous. I never knew people until you brought them to me in a tin-can soaring through outer and inner spaces alike. The universe is benevolent and not indifferent. You saved me from the bitter atheism of my generation. You saved me from resentment and hostile coffee-shop intellectuality, because now I know how to respect all things, because you showed me the insides of their heads and that they’re only just like me. And I miss you, and I miss knowing that you’re somewhere, but because of you I know that you’re everywhere, and when I tell stories in my head, I’m telling them to you.

On the day that you died, Venus was passing far above the Earth. Perhaps you were caught in its shadow and pulled into orbit on your way up. It may not be Mars, but I’m sure you’ll make do.