What I Want For My Birthday

I wrote this poem about Don Arenth.  A world class architect, a singer, funny as heck, my voice teacher's lover and a dear friend.

I thought of it tonight, because Thanksgiving is coming.  This year, I can also be thankful for my voice teacher, Mr. Petrich.  He was so kind to me, and was very generous to wasband and myself in his will.

I am humbled, touched, and miss him.  Humbled because we lost touch with each other, and it was my fault.  But, he remembered me anyway.  That's just like him.

Big, German man, imposing with a wicked grin.

Don...he was powerful, gentle, bigger than life.  He made everything feel like a party, more than a party.

We would go to Mr. P's house for Thanksgiving.  An amazing feast, German...who knew the Germans could cook turkey?  Mr. P would cook everything, and it was amazing.

One year, we go over.  We are sitting at the table, and Mr. P. is telling us about a student who annoyed him.  He called him on Thanksgiving day to ask him a musical question.  Mr. P. was furious.

Don said, "Yeah, I walked in, and here was Fred, fist f*cking the turkey."

That's Don.

Don contracted AIDS from a blood transfusion after a near fatal motorcycle accident.

I would go visit him in the hospital.  We'd read a favorite book together, "Towards Serenity and the Resolution of Grief" by Rusty Berkus.   It's a beautiful story book, with pictures.  Each page had a simple sentence or two.   A favorite of mine was "Weep what you must weep.  Not only for this loss, but for all other losses you have sustained in this life."

We'd stop on a page and talk.  Deep, beautiful talks, with tears, laughter, deep love.  Don would take my hand and say, "Everyone is afraid to talk to me about what is happening.  Thank you."

I would have walked across hot coals for that man.  One night we said it felt like a holiday, what could it be...and somehow ended up as National Beet Day.  Everything else seemed to be taken.  So, I made him a card.

I went and got him some sod from my favorite park, so he could feel grass in his fingertips, and we made a mini park for beside his bed.

Don, Mr. P., you are on the same plane again, and I can feel your smiles.  Thank you for all you are, all you have been.

The world was so lucky to know you.

What I want for my birthday

 

This time last year
you were dying.
Big eyes, whiskers like a muskrat,
a King with loving subjects.
We watched your breath like soldiers at campfire.

Last year, all I wanted
for my birthday
was to see your smile.
To know you knew,
to talk,
maybe for the last time again.

But you slept,
and I sat in a smokey waiting room
listening to dying people complain about food.

Birthday was so empty.
Christmas, New Years, National Beet Day,
empty-
filled with diapers and tubes
and icewater
-My mind when I was away
filled with when I could get back
My mind when I was there
filled with when I could get back.

Your hands patting mine-
we had the best talks those days
and how you worked to have them
how you worked to laugh, cry,
resolve, question

You were bigger than life,
a grand orchestrator,
and you were bigger than death
that slow acid bastard-
your room four concrete walls,
(Oh the rich colors You would paint them)
calling me to know more about God,
wishing I could see the Angels around you,
wishing you could see my park,
wishing we had been this close every day
not just at the end.

You must still be in that room.
Floating, detached...remembering
agonies of tubes and respirators
legs that won't work.
Your honesty, beauty, majesty
it can't be taken from this world.
It can't be made all gone like a glass of milk.

You must still be there-
mad that I haven't come.
And this year, you will wake up
to wish me Happy Birthday.