What a start I had to my day, Mikey. I was up just after six a.m. and was minding my own business, waiting for the heater to erase the cold, sipping my coffee – the new brand I found. The blinds were all open, of course, as I watched for the dawn to illuminate the whispers of fog on the peaceful water of the lake beyond. Music. Ah, music. For it is one of those mornings where the music must flow. As I write those words, I chuckle a bit at the thought and knowledge of where the music can lead. You know all too well the power of music.…

I drove over to Wilcox the other day. Someone told me about a Navajo artist that I needed to see. I did and she was a joy, a creative wonder, but that is not what is driving my thoughts. It was so cold even though the sky was clear blue and the sun shining brightly but there was a cruel north wind that stole your strength as soon as you stepped outside. It made me think of you and how you loved Spring (yes, I capitalized it as you always said it must be). Today, I thought about it for the warmth. Even the word brought a bit of warmth.…

Oh, Mikey. You know I can’t ever come home again. Oh my goodness. That made me cry. Not just that I can’t come back to you but that I think of you as to where home is. Let me slip into a literary mode and allude to Thomas Wolfe’s stupid line about never being able to go home again. I say “stupid” because I don’t want to believe it. I so want to come home. I just have no roads that lead there.

Burn this note. Burn this note for I don’t want it to live. I don’t want the memory to find a place it feels safe. It had to be shared with you and you alone but only for now and never to be mentioned. Don’t even admit you read it. Let it die in your memory and maybe it will die in mine. Burn this note. Sometimes, I wake from a deep slumber to a jolt of fear. Fear I overslept. Fear I didn’t hear him cry in the night. Then the fear turns to torment and overwhelming grief again and again. Every single time as the truth comes and…

I had to tell you I think this is the funniest thing you have ever done or said. You, who are usually funny. Not long after you rescued Vicki, she tried to pay you in the only coin of her realm that she possessed. It was a gift that she expected to mean a lot to you but, obviously, it was not something you could accept. You, who are rarely befuddled, were lost without words when she got so mad at you when you turned her down. For weeks, she wouldn’t speak to you. Each time she saw you, she would stick her cute little nose in the air and…

Look what I found! “Crying Nights” by my favorite poet. I know you have it but it needs to be brought to light again. Crying Nights Why can’t they mark the calendars With crying nights Just like the phases of the moon And fishing guides? Surely, If the almanac can predict rain For the first week of July Someone could tell When it’s time To clear the mind And wait for the jolts Or when it was time To surround yourself With those few Who’ll always make you smile Even when the calendars Say it’s bound to rain. Michael Mathews 29 MAR 77 I love reading your book of poems…

I was having breakfast this morning in this cute little cafe in downtown Winslow, Arizona, and listening to three local women talking about their friends. They were so funny talking a bit of dirt about this one or that. One of them said something about how fast a particular rumor was spreading and I remembered the time you, Bonnie, Billy, and I were sitting at the University in the Commons talking about Vicki. Someone said she was sleeping with some professor and that everyone was going to find out. You said, “That rumor is spreading faster than Vicki’s legs”. Even though she is my sister, that was so funny. I…

I’m not going to cry tomorrow. I am going to watch the sunrise and rejoice in the day. I’m not going to think about all the joy you brought and all the smiles you put on my face. Tomorrow I’m going to find a new road that I’ve never walked down before. I’m going to come up with the plan to move from here to there and maybe even figure out where “there” is. Not one time will I think of your touch nor wallow in your memory. Somehow I’m not going to think of getting lost in your eyes. No, I’m not going to cry tomorrow, but tonight. .…

Do you know why I don’t come to you when my world crashes down on me? No matter how much it would mean to me and no matter how much healing you could bring, I know it would hurt you. I know your heart and I know you would scoop me up in arms just as you always have. I can’t do that to you no matter the comfort it would bring to me. You’d scoop me up in your arms and take me back no matter the cost to you; no matter that there is nothing to ever really heal my shattered parts. Not even using Mikey glue.

Just like I remember what happened a second ago, I remember the moment he was born, when I first saw his wrinkled red face and first heard him cry. I remember the first time I held him. And when he grabbed my finger in his tiny hand. And I remember the firsts. First hugs. First steps. First words. First scraped knee. First sweet little song he sang. So many firsts, and seconds, and thirds. Those precious moments so long ago. So long ago. . .

No matter where I go, Texas winds find me. They carry subtle scents that make old memories come alive. The miles don’t seem to matter nor do mountains, rivers, valleys, or streams. I can’t go far enough that Texas can’t find me. Sometimes it flies in from the radio with one of those old songs or it floats down in the moonlight and tries to carry me away. More than once, it has wakened me in the middle of the night with a soft whisper in my ear. “I’m still here”, it seems to say. The thought makes my heart soar for Texas fun and all the memories I have…

I saw myself today. Myself from so many years ago; from a different life. I was watching a young girl, 12 or maybe 13 years old. She was playing in the park and as she dashed about, the sunlight lit her long red hair. There was something so graceful in her tall, slender, coltish frame. Sometimes, she ran; sometimes she seemed to glide but no one could fail to see the carefree spirit as she skipped and turned in circles with her arms outstretched dancing in the bright morning sun. Once, for seemingly no reason at all, she tilted her head back, and with her face pointed skyward, she let…

Once upon a time I was a mother. That’s all I’ve got today, Mikey. That’s all I’ve got.

Let me tell you the cruelest thing of all. I have to fight thinking of him at all. I can’t think about his birthday or the first step he took. I can’t think about those little milk-flavored kisses. I can’t think about that little boy smell. The one I just loved and took in each time he ran into the house after playing outside. I would grab him and swing him around as he giggled and yelled for joy. Then I would stick my freckled nose right into his hair on top of his head and just breathe in that wonderful little boy smell. I can’t think of holding his…

Mikey, what do you do with the notes I send? I have no doubt but that you keep them for you keep everything. I’m laughing as I write that but it’s true. You have every letter your old girlfriend from New York sent you and you two have been writing since you were 14 years old. I know for a fact that you have a piece of torn paper, stained with catsup, and no telling what else that has my phone number on it from the night we met. You were so sweet. That song you love came on just as I was walking by and you stood with a…

I left a drawing of a javelina sitting by the window where the sun streams in. The August sun is rather bright here in the desert flats and the drawing has faded. If I left it there just another week or two, I bet it would fade completely away. You know I hate being trite and silly but I actually did have the thought of leaving my head in that hot Arizona sun for a while just to see if that would work for me. Do you suppose it could fade those black memories? Maybe make some of them shrivel up and die? I know I am being stupid and…

I’m curled up on a real bearskin rug. Remember me telling you about my friend Maggie, who moved to Colorado with the old hippie who had the Kinkajou? I am at her house just outside of Santa Fe where they moved a few years ago. We’ve had the best time today. She took me to this gorgeous place that she knew I would want to paint. We sat in the car as I sketched for it was too cold outside. We were drinking wine and smoked a little as we talked about old times and laughed and laughed. I don’t remember the last time I laughed so much. It would…

I am going to have to move again. I love this little cabin and the view in the golden light of the sunsets, but the wind never stops. Like water slowly dripping, the wind can drive one mad and for me, that is added push I do not need.  Out in the desert, madness is not a stranger.  With the heat, the desolation, and the wind, the mind has many things to battle. It’s especially maddening at night for as the land becomes quieter, the sounds of the wind are more noticeable.  Even when light, winds chase around the corners and hidden places of the mind, finding every crack and…