In Aspen with John and Jeffrey

When I’m feeling lost,
when a map doesn’t exist,
when there’s no one to ask a question to,
when silence feels like thunder in my ears,
when I’m scared and feel stuck,
when I’m lonely and feel like I don’t have a friend,
when the phone doesn’t ring when it needs to,
when I’m too ashamed to ask for help—
I listen to John Denver.

I close my eyes and go back to Aspen—
where I was alone in the cold,
surrounded by his mountains,
roaming through his garden,
reading his prose—beautifully engraved on boulders—
just John and me, walking together in the snow, exploring.

Content in a barren room without a television.
Content with a cup of coffee and watching my breath.
Content with an afternoon nap while snow fell.
Content with a walk downtown.
Content with memories of my brother in Jackson,
having cried like a baby the day before in the Tetons—alone.
Always alone. No one to share it with.
A life of solitary experiences.

A life of lonely symphonies without my brother.
My heart hurts.
My eyes cry watching the sunrise without him—
but his love and forgiveness are there.

I want to be a little boy with him—
walking to school,
making forts,
sitting in the same chair together,
reading the Sears Christmas catalog.
I remember when his body was so small,
his arms thin,
an innocent face,
his blond hair,
his fears,
his need to be held and loved.
And it’s all gone.
It’ll never be again.
It hurts.

The memories of him dying in a hospital bed,
in a coma,
his heart beating on a screen.
He can’t talk, but the doctors said he could listen—
so I whisper in his ear,
knowing he’s dying in front of me.

He should be in Montana, in Tevas, making people laugh.
He should have a wife.
He should be an uncle.
But he’s not.
I only see him in the Tetons.
I only feel him when I’m lost in music.
Or when I see two little boys playing—and it hurts.

So much pain.
So much to say.
So much loss.
I want to call him and ask him what I should do—
even if it’s the worst advice.
I just want to hear him—
a wisecrack, anything.

He exists in mountains and oceans I visit.
He’s in eddies that swirl,
in wind that races past peaks I’ll never climb.
He’s everywhere I want to be—but I can’t go.
He’s in sunrises in Wyoming and trails in Colorado.
He’s in lakes, rivers, and gentle streams.
And I’m not there.

So I listen to my poets in lonely rooms.
I go back to Aspen,
a day removed from the last time I felt him.
And I cry.
Nothing makes sense.
It’s all confusion and loss.

Oh-oh, Montana, give this child a home
Give him the love of a good family and a woman of his own
Give him a fire in his heart, give him a light in his eyes
Give him the wild wind for a brother and the wild Montana skies

-Wild Montana Skies by John Denver

*Composed, Edited, and Published in Atlanta, GA