A distillation of these entries might read; two lonely souls come together by outrageous coincidence and cling together as the world spins beneath them. An ancient story. The first story.
This site will remain as a static memorial as long as possible, just to remind the world about my love for her. It bothers me somewhat that this must pass away as well, and that no one in the ages to come will know what the cryptic inscription on the tombstone really meant to us, or all the things she was to me – just as Francine and I knew nothing of those laid below us when we walked together through Union Cemetery all those years ago. Memorials move into shadow.
And here’s what’s funny about that: Francine would laugh and say “you worry about everything.” By implication, she worried about so little, and would never have needed to create these pages for her own peace of mind. Compared to mine, her spirit was like water flowing in a stream that came to a rock and moved past it, harmless. I feel more like a tumbleweed, always pushed by the wind towards a precipice. It’s not that I didn’t learn anything from living with her, it’s just that I’m not like her.
So much more could be mentioned about her: how fond memories of her childhood friends would suddenly make her repeat that amusing story I’d heard a hundred times; the terrible effect that gossip of any kind would have on her tender heart; how against her nature it was to speak a lie or tolerate one. How could I find the words to have anyone understand the subtle, almost secret, code we spoke full of obscure movie references from the thousands of films we saw together, or what it was like to sit with her in the dark, seven rows from the front, dead center, our favorite theatre seats? And how could I explain that though she could never tell north from south, she had the faith of a child that she would always find her way?
There are many hundreds of stories that could be included, but most of them would require permission for the photos and details of many other people’s lives. Those people are just as important to her story, but are outside the scope of this memorial, which is about just one thing: Craig loves Fran. Anyway, almost everything I’ve wanted to say remains elusive, like describing the unseen forces of magnetism and electricity between us. So this will be the last entry.
Here I throw off the ashes and sackcloth, wash my face and try to find some worthy vibrations within a small spectrum of sound to accompany this. The musical interpretation will deliberately be more abstract, surreal and incomprehensible (but also truthful and full of magnetism and electricity). Maybe she’ll hear it and know I’m thinking of her.
Chord of Hope. The title doesn’t have anything to do with finding meaning in life without her or being hopeful that loneliness will abate. It refers solely to the hope that we will be allowed to commute in that promised land beyond this existence. That she will really be there in the shade of that tree, waiting, when I arrive.
If and when such a thing is finished, it will be linked here.
Sixteen thousand days we had. Yet…
But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have fallen asleep. —1 Thessalonians 4:13-14
