In Loving Memory of Abbott Garcia

He is gone. He is gone. And yet the clock ticks on. In a flash the master of forward momentum is taken by air to the grave. Nothing we could do. No one we could save. We stand now. One fewer. But as a whole, truer. To ourselves and to our concept of love we learned from our meanderings into life together. Tying off to the rocks above and holding on tightly to the tether. And now we talk of things with restraint. Sacrificing the pain of his memory to the weather. But yet beyond our hope to forget, we know.

He is gone. He is gone. He is the first to fall in this war. And his end makes us all the more unsure. Of the time ticking by, as we all try to fly. And we begin now, how we started before. Waiting for him to come through the door. And as always, unsure of the score. As we ask the eternal “What for?”.

He is gone. He is gone. We’ll smoke one more for him. We’ll drink and swear, brush back our hair, speak as if he is still there, never changing the black that we wear, staring at our friend who cut off his hair. To show the hurt that we share. And how will our mourning end? And how will our morning begin? Hung over and asking forgiveness of sin.

He is gone. He is gone. God? Why? Why now? Why him? Is more time to much to ask? And why pain? And loss? Why is he gone? And why another painful task? The tight knit binds of our group grow tighter as we pour our tears upon the tapestry of friends. The daylight burns and grows even brighter as we suffer the loss of a friend. This bond won’t break, under strain of any kind. As one, we have chosen to see. And as one, we’ll choose to see color blind. Blind to the expanse of religion or race. Seeing not the God who judges and damns, but the one that we find in each face. My friends, my church. As one we sing, as one we feast, and as one we also will hurt. For my friend. An untimely end to a beautiful man, who followed his heart like the Tao. Who lived just to live and never quite figured out how.

He is gone. He is gone. Bring on the mourners. Sing a dirge. Shroud the world in clouds of black. Hear the words of the friends he has touched, “Give us our dear Abbott back.” Silence the bells. Bang only your drums. The Abbott of Smoke is gone. Sing for him. Teach the words to your sons. In this his life will live on.

He is gone.
He is gone.
He is gone.

Sean Critchfield