The end of January kills me. All the fresh vigor of the new year is starting to fade into vague monotony. All the studying and sweater-wearing has left me pale. Amid the yellow grasses and gray buildings, there are a handful of hopeful trees. I look down from my window seat and pick the first tree that catches my eye. I wrap myself up in a long down coat and funny earmuffs. Today I picked the complete works of Austen to accompany me. I saunter down the many flights of stairs, beaming with the hope of getting some color on my face. As I shut the big heavy door, the cold wind immediately hits my bones. My bones much prefer the warm weather. Exhausted, I take a deep breath and make my way to the sun.

As I approach the tree, I feel like I'm approaching the front door of my house without really knowing why. I sit for a while. I read some of my favorite pages from “Pride and Prejudice” and "Sense and Sensibility" when lots of tweed-wearing-types walk by. Still feeling a little bit strange, I decide to turn around and look at the tree I am supposed to be writing about. It's tall and grand. It's old and strong. In a simultaneously obvious and subtle way, it leans to the right. 

I hear the flick of a lighter a couple of yards away from me on a nearby bench, and the scent of childhood fills my nose. Immediately, I identify it as a Winston Short Red cigarette. I urgently pull another deep breath. I smell time. All the moments when we laughed so hard my ribs hurt run mercilessly through my head. Remember when you got photographed by google earth in our driveway nursing a cigarette and a scotch? We had a good laugh. I find myself studying the lines of your old wrinkly hands that used to grip your beloved smokes. I wish I could have just one more Sunday afternoon phone call, one more hug where you say “thank god you smell better than my sons,” and one last breakfast where you dip your burnt toast in soggy cereal. For a fleeting moment, my favorite ghost haunts me. 

I sit here fondly and love him from a world away. It's foolish that a tree makes me think of him, just because it's tall and leans to the right like he did. I can't put my finger on what makes it known, but it is known. This stressed-out college kid on the bench beside me didn't think his mid-day nicotine hit would prompt this, did he?

I remember the words that echoed in my head when teary Irishmen put you in the ground: I don't want to leave you here. I close my eyes and picture your face as if in doing so, you know that I'm sitting here with you. I want you to stay. I want to read with you like we used to. I open Austen smiling, because I know you would've asked if we could read philosophy instead. I read a chapter and when the smell of Winston's fades and the light changes, I feel you depart from me. 

Today I convalesce under a tree

I veil my tired face in the familiar

What makes this known? I recognize its figure

and hopeful wisdom it endows for free

In fateful reminiscing, still I see

The rightward lean. I feel his soft whisper

Esteeméd old man, your tender picture

I smell your Winstons and make one final plea

Don't fade away I'll read for us a while

Let me remember you and ache for you

I open Austen and begin to read

I know you would prefer Plato, I smile

Alive, I wait for you to sit with me 

March 2023