"Oh call it by another name, for friendship sounds too cold." - Thomas Moore
I wish there was some way I could bring you back to life, old friend. If I were a sculptress, I would sculpt a statue of you. If I were a painter, I would paint your portrait. But all I know how to do is write and that's the only way I can bring you back to me but only for a little while.
For to write about you is to think about you and to think about you makes me very happy. But I can only think about you in short moments because if I think too long then I realize that you're gone and then my heart slows down.
Sometimes, I get selfish and say I'm never going to think about you again so I won't feel the hurt of your absence from my life, the hurt of knowing that I will never hear your voice, never have another conversation with you, its unbearable to think about for too long.
But even if I tried, I know I could never stop thinking about you. You pop into my mind at least once a day and there isn't an amazing thing that goes by that I dont think "wait until I tell Victor about this," only to realize in that same moment that I can't, that those days are long gone and they left with you.
Truly, I never want to forget about you, you meant so much to me, and even in my very old age (you know I plan on living to at least a hundred) I want all of my memories of you to be fresh, organized and complete. So this is your portrait, my beloved friend, all of my memories of you recorded so that some nice young church volunteer can read this to me as I'm rocking in my rocking chair and sipping on a margarita in the year 2067:
I wish there was some way I could bring you back to life, old friend. If I were a sculptress, I would sculpt a statue of you. If I were a painter, I would paint your portrait. But all I know how to do is write and that's the only way I can bring you back to me but only for a little while.
For to write about you is to think about you and to think about you makes me very happy. But I can only think about you in short moments because if I think too long then I realize that you're gone and then my heart slows down.
Sometimes, I get selfish and say I'm never going to think about you again so I won't feel the hurt of your absence from my life, the hurt of knowing that I will never hear your voice, never have another conversation with you, its unbearable to think about for too long.
But even if I tried, I know I could never stop thinking about you. You pop into my mind at least once a day and there isn't an amazing thing that goes by that I dont think "wait until I tell Victor about this," only to realize in that same moment that I can't, that those days are long gone and they left with you.
Truly, I never want to forget about you, you meant so much to me, and even in my very old age (you know I plan on living to at least a hundred) I want all of my memories of you to be fresh, organized and complete. So this is your portrait, my beloved friend, all of my memories of you recorded so that some nice young church volunteer can read this to me as I'm rocking in my rocking chair and sipping on a margarita in the year 2067:
Victor Brown, A Portrait
Victor Brown was my very best friend, male or female, he was also his father's pride and joy, his mother's crowning glory and his sister's constant hero. He stood 5'6", a small-sized man, but his body was in perfect proportion and rippled with muscles. In the beginning, when he was trying to seduce me, he would take off his shirt and show me his chest and arms and I'd admire how beautiful his body was and it was.
I always thought even though he was a little guy, he could be a model in those muscle magazines because he stayed ripped and since he was so perfectly proportioned a picture of him alone wouldn't show he was short. We talked about his shortness and the Napoleon complex some short men have. He told me of the times brothas tried to intimidate him or women insulted him and how he responded or rather didn't respond. He always credited his years of studying tae kwon do for the confidence and restraint he possessed. Not only that, Victor knew the streets and he had a lot of street charm. One time, I saw a big fat woman call Victor a "short motha-fucka" because he was trying to pass her and he just said "I love you too, baby."
Victor was an attorney and when he passed the bar exam his father, who was raised by his grandmother who had been a slave, had a huge banner made that said "Victor Brown, Esquire" and he hung it on one of his apartment buildings. His father, John Albert Brown, was a stern man who worked for the post office for a zillion years and invested his money in east side apartment buildings and duplexes.
Victor said that his dad told him that his grandmother (Victors great-grandma) was raised in slavery and when she punished him she would tie his hands to a limb on a tree and whip him on the back with a belt, just like she saw the slaves being whipped in her girlhood.
I guess those whippings took effect because Mr. Brown never drank, smoked or womanized. Nor did he whip Victor or Victor's sister. Mr. Brown was married to the same woman for forty years, worked at the same job for just about as long, and gave his kids everything they wanted, only never with a smile. Victor said that when he saw that banner it brought tears to his eyes because he finally knew how proud his father was of him.
Victor Brown was my very best friend, male or female, he was also his father's pride and joy, his mother's crowning glory and his sister's constant hero. He stood 5'6", a small-sized man, but his body was in perfect proportion and rippled with muscles. In the beginning, when he was trying to seduce me, he would take off his shirt and show me his chest and arms and I'd admire how beautiful his body was and it was.
I always thought even though he was a little guy, he could be a model in those muscle magazines because he stayed ripped and since he was so perfectly proportioned a picture of him alone wouldn't show he was short. We talked about his shortness and the Napoleon complex some short men have. He told me of the times brothas tried to intimidate him or women insulted him and how he responded or rather didn't respond. He always credited his years of studying tae kwon do for the confidence and restraint he possessed. Not only that, Victor knew the streets and he had a lot of street charm. One time, I saw a big fat woman call Victor a "short motha-fucka" because he was trying to pass her and he just said "I love you too, baby."
Victor was an attorney and when he passed the bar exam his father, who was raised by his grandmother who had been a slave, had a huge banner made that said "Victor Brown, Esquire" and he hung it on one of his apartment buildings. His father, John Albert Brown, was a stern man who worked for the post office for a zillion years and invested his money in east side apartment buildings and duplexes.
Victor said that his dad told him that his grandmother (Victors great-grandma) was raised in slavery and when she punished him she would tie his hands to a limb on a tree and whip him on the back with a belt, just like she saw the slaves being whipped in her girlhood.
I guess those whippings took effect because Mr. Brown never drank, smoked or womanized. Nor did he whip Victor or Victor's sister. Mr. Brown was married to the same woman for forty years, worked at the same job for just about as long, and gave his kids everything they wanted, only never with a smile. Victor said that when he saw that banner it brought tears to his eyes because he finally knew how proud his father was of him.
To be continued.....
