# 10 - Chapter Ten "It Hurts to Say Goodbye"

 

 

It Hurts to Say Goodby

Chapter Ten – El Siegel 

How can you describe the myriad complexity of just one human being with words on a page? How can you even begin to paint a portrait with just a few brushstrokes on canvas? And how can you even begin to relate the relationship between two people in a volume? 

Maybe a start is to tell this story, as I’m trying in this account.

Faith Gruen was a person who gave to others. To me, she gave warmth and affection, maybe even love, but I’m still troubled with the word “love” because I was weak and I took more than I gave. She opened a new world for me, the world of poetry, and she worked to help me develop my skills and find my talent to express myself through poetry. And she placed a goal before me, to be a truly honorable and charitable human.

The memories of her death and the fact that I was weak continue my pain. But it’s the positive memories that comfort me. I remember Faith in the images, the words, the touchings and the emotions that live on in my memory. Those memories give me pleasure, and they will for years to come. 

I remember one time, a wonderful time, just about two months after we met for the first time. She came to my home, and we worked together on the first text I wrote that approached a poem. The text was clumsy and naïve and maybe even juvenile.

The weeks before, I worked hard. I wrote in my journal, and – just like Faith suggested to me – I used those ideas to put words on paper. One attempt after another, I tried and tried. I kept banging my head against a brick wall, always hoping to succeed in the end. 

That evening, she appeared at my front door. The outdoor light shined on her fair skin and red lips and made her dark eyes gleam. I greeted her. Our lips just brushed, and when I sought more, she said, “Let’s work. I wanna see what you been doing.” 

She entered, and I closed the door behind her. She removed her beige linen jacket and tossed it on the couch. She wore a black ballerina blouse with a discreetly cut neckline and loose-fitting gray trousers. 

I asked, “What can I get you?”

“How about your famous El’s tea, and then your text, so I can sip and read?” she answered. She pushed her jacket aside and took a place on the couch facing the front window. 

I did my job and then placed the tea and one printed page on the round marble table. The title on the page was “Time.”

I took a place on the leather couch across from her. 

She took a few careful sips of the hot tea and looked up at me. “El, tell me, how do you get into the mood? Like, when you start writing, put yourself in the right mood?”

I took a quick sip. “This is going to sound simplistic, but I kinda close my eyes and try to think about what I want to say, like you said, the idea I want to express. Really, not much more.”

“But to make sure you’re totally in it, do you try to visualize something, or repeat a mantra, or maybe even meditate?” Then she leaned forward, like maybe I’d say something important. 

“You’re not gonna believe this,” I answered. “I been thinking about this little ditty a lot, and then one night, I actually dreamed about. I don’t know if I can really say it was a dream, because there wasn’t a story. But some of the words actually came to me when I was asleep; and then, surprise, I remembered them in the morning.”

Faith flashed a big smile. “That’s great. Wow, this has to be great. Just give me a few minutes.”

I watched her read. She took her time. But I didn’t dare look at my watch.

Here’s the text:

“Time”

I look in the mirror;

an old man stares back at me. 

Where has the time gone?

I look at a grandchild;

a tall teenager smiles back at me. 

Where has the time gone?

When I look back to an earlier day,

yesterday was only a few seconds away. 

When I live every second,

waiting for some pronouncement,

the wait grinds and hurts.

How can the time move so slow?

When I look at my high school yearbook,

Who are these guys and beautiful girls?

It’s all so far and still so present. 

How many changes, how many times gone by. 

There’s only one rule when it comes to time.

Time is a pitcher that can’t be refilled.

It clicks on by, and you can’t wind it back. 

So live every second to the hilt. 

The hour glass can’t be rebuilt.  

After what seemed like a long time, Faith raised her gaze and smiled at me. “Lem’me tell you what I like. There are three phrases.

“My favorite is, ‘When I look back to an earlier day, yesterday was only a few seconds away.’ It’s so simple and clear, and it just shouts, yes, that’s so true.” For me, it was hard to believe; she spoke with such enthusiasm. “And then ‘the wait grinds and hurts,’ my God, we all lived that, and you’re not afraid of simple, clear, clean words. And the line, ‘It’s all so far and still so present.’ The use of the word ‘present’ is so good, means so much.”

Then, Faith slowed down and seemed to pick her words carefully. “And then what I’m not crazy about, and the main reason is that some lines just remind me so much of other poets. Like the image of the pitcher and the hourglass, I think they’ve been used so often. Sure, all kinds of artists borrow or steal from each other. But, gosh, the hourglass and the pitcher have been used so much.

“And mostly, when you say ‘live every second to the hilt,’ another line just jumps into my head. It’s Robert Herrick, ‘Gather thee rosebuds,’ et cetera. And I’m not crazy about the words ‘hilt’ and ‘rebuilt’ there. They just don’t sound right there.” 

Her eyes glowed bright. “But what I said about when you use simple, clean words, it’s just great. And for being your first time out, it’s . . . stupendous. Really!”

I was on top of the world. I felt such a rush of satisfaction. And those were words of praise from a wonderful poet and – at that moment – the woman I loved.

I wanted so much to jump up and hug and kiss Faith. But I controlled myself. This was a work session. I had so much to learn.

The words came so naturally. “Oh, thank you so much! I have you to thank. It’s for you, really.” 

“No, El, it’s you,” she said. “You’re expressing yourself. But I wanna tell you something. It’s great to just let yourself go. We gotta depend on our inspiration, the moment when the right things just happen, the right words just jump into our minds. But once it’s down on paper, there’s another step, and this could be the toughest one. We gotta look at what we wrote, and we gotta be our own worst enemy. We gotta look at our work and ask ourselves, is this good? Is this really what I want to say?”

She waited a few seconds to let her comments sink in, and then: “But, wow, for your first poem, your first real poem, this is so important.

“And, El, you know something? I think I know what your real talent is. Really, you’re so good at taking on a persona and then letting it rip. And if you get stuck, just take a nap and have a dream. Well, maybe not exactly like that. But I think you have a really creative mind, you’re open to stuff, really.” 

I said, “So, guess what? I spent my whole career in marketing. But I do see similarities between ads and poems. And it’s like poems and song, music lyrics. But really, when you come right down to it, a lot, maybe all lyrics are pure poetry.”

“And you gotta keep going! You can’t stop. You got something.”  

I don’t know how to describe it, but felt light-headed, even with no alcohol. And I had a new confidence because Faith’s reaction to my poem, even though I knew that feeling wouldn’t last long. And when Faith asked me about youth, I enjoyed talking about it.

The stories about how I used to discuss novels with my dad, and then I did the same thing with Patrick really interested her. She thought it was wonderful to have this mutual interest in an important art form spanning three generations.

Sure, she didn’t know the whole story. But she told me I was a good son and a good father. I’ve thought a lot about this question, and maybe I wasn’t such a horrible dad with Patrick. We were still on speaking terms, and I knew at that moment I had some promises to keep. 

It was late. The evening had passed so fast without our realizing it. Faith looked at me with a serious expression. “El, you’re a good person. You can give yourself more credit. Honestly.” 

She stood up slowly and circled the marble table and plopped herself down on my couch, right next to me, and then snuggled even closer to me. “This was a good evening, thank you.”

“I’m the one who should be saying thank you,” I said. “Thank you, Faith. You’re a good friend.” 

We faced each other. I felt a tinge of guilt, but I could not refuse. The moment was warm and beautiful. Beneath her garments, she was pure and desirable. And we gave to each other, we gave tenderness that grew into passion and sharing and heat and shouts of pleasure and sweat and then exhaustion and satisfaction and contentment, and then warmth that endured.  

We both knew it, we knew it without expressing the words, we experienced a miracle. 

These are the bright memories I have of Faith. But now, at a time when I am suffering from her murder, the bright memories, I have to fight for them and keep them alive. I have to fight or darkness will take over.

But I keep thinking. I have to be honest with myself. It didn’t come all at once. We spent so much time together. It was a process. The way it happened, it wasn’t exactly the way I explain it, not even to myself. I have to be honest with myself. I was selfish. It felt good. Faith was on my mind, and the more I thought about her, the more I felt regret and guilt. She had a trusting and naïve quality about her. When she touched me or kissed me, she was almost like a child. Yes, I pledged not to fall into the old man’s trap, to keep my physical distance. I broke my own rules every time I touched her. I just couldn’t stop. I couldn’t keep my hands off her, I couldn’t keep my mouth off her. 

It was later when I knew true guilt. When I was alone and I felt the darkness starting to block out the light, the guilt hurt me.