Book 3, Letter 15: To Rafael Roccisano

Hey Raf,

I saw you on the street yesterday, and I thought I should pass this on to you. Another of your friends posted this on Facebook.

*

From Audry LeMay

There's a thousand stories to be told of our brother

Raf's generosity, passion, creativity, profound sense

of honour and belief in justice for all. It hurt me not to

hear a single one told during the service.

From the day Raf moved into my house, there was not

a week he didn't actively offer food shelter, love and

fire to those around us who needed it. I will always

cherish the memories I have of him sticking his neck

out for others. Those who would steal his last dance

and make his funeral a place to put their own anger

and pain do him a grave dishonour. Everybody hurts

but love is the greatest painkiller known to mankind.

Love is the law.

Our brother deserves better than to have his death

dance reduced to an angry public health

advertisement. I was particularly heartbroken that he

died kissing the bottle for sure. But it was my

experience THAT WHEN RAF WAS KISSING BOTTLES

HE WAS ALSO KISSING YOU!

RIP Rif Raf. This Bottle's for you old friend.

*

I saw you on the street at the Semaphore Street Fair yesterday. I was there, as I am every year, with drummers and belly dancers, when I saw you walk by. Only you didn't walk....you danced. You heard the Arabic music playing for the dancers on the stage and you grooved on by, giving me a wink as you did so. You looked young, maybe twenty. You looked happy, strong. I had to catch my breath after you passed by.

Then last night, I dreamed that I was speaking with you, telling you that I had seen you on the street. So now in the morning I am writing to tell you that I love you, that we all love you and miss you.

I hope wherever you are, and whatever you are doing, that you have friends around you, and that maybe in the morning, you will rise having dreamt of us. I hope that whatever street you walk down, that you are dancing. Thank you Rafael. In death you continue to help us, to offer up the lessons of your heart for us to learn from.

The after-party of Rafael Antonio Roccisano.

The stories of our lives don't have beginnings or endings. Everything in history is connected. We gather, dressed in black on the pier, a sunset storm describes the permeable boundary between two worlds. The land of the living and the land of the dead.

Rafael was such an important person in all our lives. His story continues to have a massive impact on all of us. We still cry, we still dream of him, we hear his voice in our heads, we expect to see him among familiar faces. He is gone, but his story is far from over.

The dead are not dead.  Rafael lives in us. It is a cliché, but I feel that it is true nonetheless.

After the flowers are scattered in the swelling ocean, after the ashes are poured out, along with our tears and our words and the last of the daylight, we part and make our way, separate, but forever connected by him who brought us together. His story is connected to ours. We played with him, we drank with him, we grew up, we fought, made up, told stories, took drugs, we laughed and cried and then he died.

But the dead do not die, so long as we live to speak their name. So long as their story is connected to ours, the dead do not die. We don't have beginnings or endings. Everything in us is connected.

*

The after-party kicks on within the hour. (There's a part of me that knows that Raf would be stoked to know that there was an after-party), We crowd around the fire, the darkness expelled from our hearts, the cold repelled from our skin, we drink. We drink.

We gather in the home of the Beersmith (a.k.a. the Alchemist, the Trickster). There is talk, and warm faces turn to meet, and our hugs are long and full of meaning. The click-duh-clack of pool balls is a gentle music against which we meet to say hello, to ask of each other, to listen and tell. There is laughter, a young boy plays wild games of adventure with adventurous adults. He whoops and hollers as only a child can, tilting and falling on an adult-sized see-saw with his father.

The Beersmith dances around a steamy pot wherein a new alchemy is being birthed. The air feels intoxicating, wet with humid aromas of yeast, grain, sugar. Reading from a recipe more chemistry than culinary, he counts his friends on both hands and both feet, and there are plenty more hands offered to help with the count. Tonight he is the host of something truly special, a scattered, spin-wheel of interwoven stories. He is surrounded by storytellers. Everywhere people talk of games, of journeys, of escapades, but also of maths and movies and books and every turn of phrase is another sort of good natured joke. We laugh at our youth, at our age, at our simple striving and quarrels.

The rain is gentle.

Beyond the reach of the sheltered back porch 

a-flood with light and colour,

beyond the shelter of our hands holding hands,

out there the night is very quiet.

The rain is gentle.

Out there, in here, Rafael.

*

PS: Your brother Gabe sent me this, after the party.

Beyond the reach of the sheltered back

porch. In the rain. His brother weeps.

Gnashing of teeth. Whole heart. Feet in

the dirt.

His brother weeps and is held. And he

holds another as she weeps. And they

both let go. And hold on. Their tears

mingling in the mud.