Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski-Graham

You did talk to me last night, first time in a while. Yes, it was a strange night, followed by strange day. Or was it the other way around?  When you are alone, without a set schedule or watch, things do get mixed up easily. Dates especially: Mondays become Fridays, Fridays Tuesdays. So what happened to Wednesday, you ask? Who cares what happened to Wedneday, perhaps I left it on a beach, or on a bench in some park? Maybe it is still in the shower when I saw it last time I was taking a shower? What? Do I not take a shower every day? Maybe not, maybe sometime I take a bath, who cares? You really are asking way too many questions and it is my story anyway. Be quite, just listen.

No, not you, Babycake – I’m talking to my alter ego. You wouldn’t ask such stupid, mundane questions.

But the day or the night when I was still in bed, when I was sleeping, I dreamt of you, I talked to you. Have not done it in a while. I thought that you just let it go, these talks of ours across the boundaries of life and death. Thought maybe there is some allotted time that you can do that and maybe you have used it up? I don’t know. Remember? I am the one still left alive, never been consciously to the other side.

None of it is important really, anyway. I have dreamt of you in my sleep. It woke me up and there you were, next to me. No, I couldn’t see you, but you were there talking to me, you were saying something important.  You said that I have to understand that I am alone. That adjective ‘alone’ stood up as a mountain, a wall impregnable, forest too dense to walk out of it. I was getting used to be ‘alone’ in an adverb form.

Since I came back to our home, our former life here, in this city, this province, I have become very busy in many aspects: walks, friends, beaches, concerts, plans. It was just hard to go back to our home, our street. So I did it very seldom, hoping that it will allow me to function as normal as possible. And it did. Had evenings in bars, laughter, maybe a flirt or two. It seemed normal, I was spared any regrets. It was almost as I would finally get across that invisible line of Doctor Time, who heals old wounds; whose grief becomes first bearable, then transforms itself into a memory. Memory that is sad, but also happy that we did have our time, we found each other among the millions of people. As I was told many times, that it will get easier.

You think that was an expectation too easy, perhaps? I am not, after all, just a single guy ready for the picking and ready for harvesting. Is there anything wrong with it, isn’t it logical, practical?

I have reached to my writings of the early days after you were gone, to the first winter after you were gone and my constant visits to the gravesite in Pictou. Yes, that old ancestral town, where we were going to build our home, and spent the rest of our lives in that home.  We did not.

(notes from my writings after John’s passing by the end of November 2022)

                One year. It is hard as hell. Came to Pictou to spent time on the cemetery where we put your ashes. It’s windy, very cold. Desolate place. There was no one else there, on the cemetery. I know – it is only a stone with your name on it. Yours, your parents, and your baby brother you never had a chance to know. And now, there is also your oldest brother Fraser, who was laid there just few months ago.

Cleaned around a bit, threw away old winter flowers, and fixed things. Fixed things? How to ‘fix things’? Nothing can be fixed, when everything is broken.

Yes, I know that you are not there, not under the ground. You are with me. Forever. I have engraved on that stone myself that you are forever in my memory. I looked at the letters and smiled. In my memory, really? That’s what it all came to? Our Love, our life: to be remembered? How silly words could be, when they try to describe emotions, feelings. But still hoped that many years from now, when all of us, who knew you and me, would be gone – a stranger would wander to that gravesite and he would think, that the guy who is buried there was indeed ‘non omnis moriar’, that part of him lived in that other guy’s heart. Nice thought.

You and that Love of ours are engraved not on the stone, but in my soul.

Me? I don’t remember who I was before I met you. I was just waiting. Waiting and searching for you – and I have found you.

                Now, now it is almost three years later. I am here, back to our good life on the shores of the other ocean.  Were we had home, a nest, were we had dozens of friends, people we cherished and who cherished us. Some were ours; others were exclusively yours or mine.  The two halves of Us were surprisingly very independent and strong, if only by the constant knowledge that the other half is there to make it whole.

I don’t have that knowledge anymore. The other half is gone, it is just me left. Those many people I have known, and who sought my presence are still here. Not all of them, granted. Some have left either this life (as you), or this city. But some are still here. None seem to really need me. I am not sure I need them. Of course there is some curiosity, some friendly waving of a hand: how nice to see you again, you are looking good … and so on. I thought that I would need to search for them myself, that I would want it very much. But if I’m always finding excuses and ‘important things’ that prevent me from doing it – am I really?

I have one important friend and, strangely enough, one with the shortest amount of time we spent in this city before we left for Nova Scotia.  Less than a year, I think. After my dearest nephew had to go back to Poland, but still this young and very mature nephew was my angel in the first month after John was gone. Then my niece with her husband and son came to stay with me. But he, that younger friend of mine from Vancouver, somehow helped me in the dark months after I was left alone in Halifax. The rest seemed like eternity. Eternity of being in hell, or waiting for the hell’s gates to be opened, to swallow my world. At these dark times that younger friend kept me connected to the world and people by phone. Our long conversations were instrumental of me getting the skeleton of myself back into me.

That is how I did return. To the place of Our home, our happiness. These places somehow were the strongest magnet for me. I submerged myself in going alone, for days on end, on long walks through parks, streets,  squares, building  were we lived, were my mom lived, were I was with my sisters, my nephew and niece. Places that were calling me. Yes, places, much more than people.

I think that we all have these special places, sometime in many countries, on different continents. Special places that act as an anchor on a ship of life. Where we can drop that anchor and stay safely in some magical Bay of Memories.

It is also a time to untie that line across the sides of our two separate boats: mine and the one belonging to my younger dear friend. He has journeys to make across the sea himself, his journey, not ours. That is also a part of me being alone. My boat is rusted a bit, engines are old. It will still make it though, the last long sailing, perhaps passing the Cape of Hope (not the Cape of Horn), back to original shipyard of its maiden voyage. Then I will rest.

After that rest, I will go alone on many walks to many places (some might not exist materially anymore, but will in my world) that will call me. Solitary walks. It will be like existing in two different dimensions.

One day (no, not in my sleep) perhaps suddenly, out of the blue, I will see you taking the same trail or road and walking toward me, and I will stop being alone. I do hope so. Even in a faint split second before the big Nothingness.

It is what it is. Could be silent, but even than it is not nameless.

Yet, we will not call that name today. We know what it is. Sad but proud; weeping but not hysterical. Sad but understanding; resigned but not broken.

Thinking – strangely enough – about two old movies, that made an enormous effect on me as a very young boy. One with Lamberto Maggiorani in “Bicycle Thief” _[i] and incomparable Gulietta Masina in “La Strada”_[ii]. Dreams and loves. Devotion and standing by your loves no matter what. Beyond the beyond.

Words. Many words.

The soft and the tense.

Words that can pierce,

be sharp but still true.

They are an umbrella

on a rainy day:

it does not bring sunshine,

does not clear the sky,

but it saves you from being wet.

Perhaps there is even a chance

that such an umbrella

will take a flight with you

to the clouds, to the skies.

It is better to be silent

than to use the thread of words

for making a garment

of lies and half-truths.

Walk silently through

the park filled with good words

where leafs whisper

the promise of a kiss and

touch of fingertips and eyelashes.

Words should never be

like grains of sand in a desert

or they will lose their meaning.

It is good to thread them

on strands of necklaces,

make earrings of them –

it makes them easily accessible,

without the need to always

use a coin for new ones.

Words, you see, are like

years and days: they are

 on very limited number.

The story lives

in your heart and soul,

not in thesauruses.

Words are the keys

to books unwritten, yet.  

(Polish vrsion – both were written simultaneously, not a translation)

Słowa. Dużo słów.

Te łagodne i te nastroszone.

Słowa, które mogą kłuć,

być ostre, ale prawdziwe.

Które leczą a nie jątrzą.

Są jak parasol w słotny dzień:

nie przynosi słońca,

nie przepędza chmur,

ale chroni przed zmoknięciem.

Jest nawet szansa, że jak

w starym filmie porwą cię

w podróż w chmury,

na spacer po niebie.

Lepiej milczeć niż szyć

z nici słów opowieść

kłamstw i fałszu.

Milczący – przechadzaj się w ciszy

parku pełnego dobrych słów.

Jak liście pod nogami szeleszczące

obietnicą pocałunku,

dotyku palców i rzęs.

Słowa nie powinny być rozrzutne,

by nie tracić swej wartości.

Warto je nizać na nitkę

naszyjników i zausznic –

masz je wtedy zawsze pod ręką,

nie musisz trwonić monety

czasu na stale inne, nowe.

Bo słów, jak lat i dni

jest ograniczona ilość.

Opowieść mieszka w sercu i duszy –

nie w tezaurusie.

Słowa to klucze do ksiąg,

jeszcze nie napisanych.

_{[i]Bicycle Thieves (1948) – Film Review. Italian neo-realist classic.}

_{[ii]La Strada (1954) – IMDb}