# 24 - Chapter Twenty Four "It Hurts to Say Goodbye"

 

It Hurts to Say Goodbye 

Chapter Twenty-Four   - El Siegel 

It was a gloomy day. Gray clouds hung over the city, and even though it was already mid-morning, everything seemed to be covered in vague shadows, what you’d expect with the shifting toward night. And the air felt wet, and that meant we were in a real Philly summer, a time when the heat and the moisture could steal your energy and kill your enthusiasm. 

But not me: I felt okay. It seemed a few things could be working out. Yes, there were things I didn’t know, and maybe I’d never know them. But I just didn’t feel the uneasiness and doubt that had hung over me for so long. 

The day started early, actually too early because I actually woke up to the ringing of the phone. It was one of the police detectives, Buckley, the one I thought was the smarter of the two, and listening to him explain the reason for his call, his voice sounded different; there was just hint of authority, maybe a tentative authority. 

“I hope I didn’t wake you up. If I did, I’m sorry,” he said. It was just a few minutes after eight, and I didn’t hear the usual cop office noise on the line “But, anyway, I wanna thank you for your help on the case. We’re making progress, and a lot of it’s thanks to you. Right now, we’re focusing on one individual, a person of interest. Officially, I can’t give you his name, but I’m betting you can guess.”

“Well, I appreciate your calling,” I said, while I was trying to shake the cobwebs from my head. “And you know, we’re really on the same side on this. We want Faith’s killer, the real killer to be punished.”

“That’s a big ten-four,” the detective said, and the police lingo sounded strange coming from him. “It kinda looks like this guy doesn’t have many friends, or maybe the people that like him must be hidin’ from us, haven’t crossed our path yet.” 

I decided to try something. “You got an idea when you’re going to wrap this up, when you’re going to file charges, or whatever you have to do?”

“Honest, you got me,” he said. “That kinda stuff is outta my hands. All that’s up to my bosses and, for sure, the District Attorney’s office.”

Our conversation stalled for a few seconds. Then Buckley came out with what was the real reason for the call. “So, just in case, I gotta ask you, just in case, if we need you, you willin’ to testify at trial? Probably not really necessary, but just in case.” 

I could only give one answer. “You can count on me. It’s important to me. I’m sure you know that.”

“Just confirming,” Buckley said. “And goin’ forward, lemme tell ya, I’ll be updatin’ ya, if I can, or if I’m tied up or something, someone else’ll be calling you.”

“That’s fine, really. I appreciate it.”  

Well, as soon as I pushed the red button my phone, I wondered why it wasn’t the other detective, Boswell, calling me. And I realized that for several days, I hadn’t talked to the detectives nor the investigative reporters from The Inquirer. That was fine. For the moment, I wanted to be alone. 

During the day, I wandered the streets of my dear Queen Village, passing the historic houses and the smiles and hellos of my neighbors. As the afternoon progressed, I walked to Center City and took a place on a bench in Rittenhouse Square, among the trees and foliage and the tourists and the Philadelphians. 

And I thought. I thought about what I had been through, and I wondered about the years to come. And I told myself I still had a lot of life to live. Once in a while I noted my ideas in my journal, maybe like a kid thrilled by the ideas that seemed to appear from nowhere but had some special importance for me. And reading them over, I realized they circled around my life and what I knew I would have to decide.

Those words remain in my journal as the record of my thoughts:

“When I look at the sky, and when I read the scientific journals, we’re reminded that the universe is infinite, and our insignificant Earth is even less than a tiny speck and means nothing in the great, expanding beyond. Our Earth means nothing except that here we are, clinging to its decomposing crust, trying to survive, and live our little lives and gain those few moments of joy, and among them are those we love.” 

And I knew that some of the themes I thought of were evoked by my memories of Faith and the tragedy of her violent death: 

“A human life is such a miracle, such a wonder. But in an instant, in no time, before we realize, it can be stolen. It’s so fragile, so easily destroyed. After years of effort, years of nurture, years of learning, years of effort, it can disappear. But this life is the only game in town, it’s all we got. So, with only one life, we have to play the game to the hilt.” 

In the afternoon, I returned home and installed myself in our backyard. The white blossoms of our dogwood had already fallen to the red bricks. But bright green ivy covered two of the surrounding walls, our collection of flowers were in bloom, and the evidence of nature’s beauty was reassuring. It was a place where Debbi and I felt at ease and, at the same time, reassured and energetic. 

-0-

There were three knocks on my front door. The noise pulled me out of my reverie and sent me wondering who could be coming to visit. 

I pulled myself up from my leather couch and opened the front door. It was Patrick. 

He remained standing in front of me for a while. There was sweat on his face, and his jeans were rolled up. I wondered if he’d taken a bike to come and see me. I concluded yes, when I noticed how he started talking, breathless and rushed. “Dad, I want to be honest with you. I don’t know what to call it. It’s a kind of a mission.”

I greeted him with a hug, and we both took opposing places on the two leather couches. 

“I been with Mom.” 

“That’s great!” 

He hesitated for a few seconds, and I started to understand the mission. “Well, not really. She’s worried about you, and I bet, kinda hurt, too.”

“Jesus, I don’t know . . .  ?”

“Well, she said the two of you talked on the phone, and agreed to talk once a week.”

We barely started talking, and I was on the defensive. “Well, look. I know I promised once a week, but . . .  I don’t know. But we did talk twice, or maybe three times.”

“Dad, that’s not the problem. She said the conversations you had, she said they were . . . I don’t know how to say this. She said the conversations you had were . . . they were strange.”

I said, “I don’t know why. We talked, and they were good conversations. It all felt normal to me. Patrick, honestly, you weren’t there. I was. They were fine.”

“Yeah, sure. But still, I don’t know, Dad. Sometimes, for me too, sometimes you seem strange. Being with you now, honest, sometimes you look distant, sometimes, like you’re someplace else, in a mist or maybe . . . I don’t wanna exaggerate, but sometimes, but maybe like in a zone.” 

That caught me off guard. I didn’t know what to say. I almost thought I was on trial or something. “Patrick, I don’t know what we’re doing here. I don’t see what’s useful in looking at what I say or how I act under a microscope. They were conversations, normal conversations.” 

“Dad, I’m just telling what Mom tells me, and she doesn’t feel great about it.”

Finally, I just blurted out what came into my mind. “Look’it, maybe it just takes time. Maybe it just takes time for all of us. You know, a lot’s been happening. All this time, for a long time, maybe since the divorce, anyway, for a long time, it’s been a rough time for me. I know, the same for you and Mom, too. But, you know, I been honest and honorable. But you know, I spent a lot of time with Faith. You knew her, I Introduced you to her, before she was murdered.”

“Yeah, Dad, I remember. You introduced me to her.”

“That’s right.  Nothing hidden.” I felt this was important to say. “I didn’t want to go sneaking around. But yeah, she was important to me.”

“I know, Dad. I could see it. We were at the poetry club, in that bar. And, sure, I remember her. She was hot, really hot.”

“Patrick, you can’t imagine what I been going through.”

Patrick looked like the air was just pumped out of him, kind of desperate. “Well, I don’t know what I can do. For both of you, I just don’t know. Maybe just try to put yourself in her shoes. Maybe pay attention to her more. You know, she said when you’re talking, it’s like you’re thinking about something else, maybe someone else.” 

“I’ll try, really. I’ll try harder,” I said. “This has been hard for me. I know I’m an old guy, and all that, and she, Faith, was young. But it’s hard. I can make an intellectual decision to think less about her, but then my emotions don’t follow through.”

“Dad, I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe just try to see things from Mom’s side.”

“Patrick, me neither, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m trying, really trying, and I’m making progress. But yeah, it’s slow.”

I could feel the silence between us. 

Then Patrick said, “I’m just thinking of Mom.” 

“Ya know, my goal is to be . . . I wanna be Mom’s friend. Thing’s aren’t gonna be like before, but I wanna be a friend, a good friend.”

After a while, Patrick said he had to get back to school. He left in a hurry, and I felt left up in the air. I knew what I had to do, but I didn’t know how. 

-0-

As evening approached, and the shadows of the foliage crept up the walls of our house, I sensed the gradual arrival of night. It was silent, and as the evening breeze rustled the dogwood’s leaves. I felt the night was bringing me some calm. 

Then, something came to me. I didn’t know how it happened. Words started coming to me. More and more, it was easier for me to verbalize my thoughts and feelings. A poem started coming to me. Not in one fell swoop, but little by little, sometimes halting, and sometimes faster. They were the words of a poem, not just my memories or my feelings, but also the decisions I had to make, my path forward. It was what I had to do to be true to Faith and how to continue my own life. 

And in bursts and plods, I put these words down in my journal. 

 

Here it is:

“It Hurts to Say Goodbye”

By El Siegel 

My mind clings to the splendor that is you:

The scent of your black hair,

The ringing notes of your laugh,

The thrill to see the form of your beauty,

And feel the power of your pure, sparkling soul. 

But I gotta say,

Somewhere down deep,

Down deep in my being,

There’ll always be a grain of regret. 

It hurts to say goodbye. 

Losing you broke my heart.

But the way you were taken cuts deeper. 

Shock and pain, they took your fragile being. 

Living through those moments,

My God, how could it be true?

Maybe I miss you because you’re gone,

And I know I didn’t give all I could.

My heart hurts to remember what I didn’t do,

And my efforts to rise above my real self.

Those days are sinking into the mist of the past. 

But I gotta say,

Somewhere down deep,

Down deep in my being,

There’ll always be a grain of regret. 

It hurts to say goodbye. 

No longer can I pretend I can reach out,

And feel the tenderness of your touch. 

But now my life must go on,

Accept the past for what it was in its place in time,

I can no longer live the past in the present. 

 

Can I continue to live in your world,

And call up your sweet image in my mind,

And feel your warmth in my empty heart,

And let loose the heat of my passion?

No, today I must accept you’re gone. 

I have to move on from the pleasures we took,

Holding you in my arms and feeling you shudder, 

The sharing of our deepest feelings and ideas, 

Listening to your counsel and your passion for our art.

But I can no longer live the past in the present. 

But I gotta say,

Somewhere down deep,

Down deep in my being,

There’ll always be a grain of regret. 

It hurts to say goodbye.