I wrote a letter beneath the shimmering lights of the season,
not to a holiday icon, hoping for granted wishes,
but to a familiar name,
that has never had a face attached,
but feels like a match,
or by spirit,
I could never tell which.
I have written a letter to the man who shares my surname.
We could be related,
or I could be caught up in a coincidence,
but with each word, it seems to matter less and less,
because he was somebody’s son,
the sunlight in someone’s life,
a smiling star that shone too bright,
and I think of him with a fondness that would seem strange to anyone but me,
wondering if we’d be close if I were his niece, or his cousin from another continent.
Christmas is coming,
and I’m wondering what his favourite part of it was.
Was Bay City lit up like a fantasy?
Was he as bad at wrapping gifts as me?
Did he wander the streets, wondering which pavement stones Madonna had walked upon before him? (I absolutely would have done that too) And also wondering why the Queen of Pop never released a full Christmas record? (Again, SAME!)
All I’ve ever known is his name,
and the city he slept in for the last time,
but he has been on my mind for months and years,
because I was lost in the trail of tragedy when he came along,
a familiar name,
some kind of anchor,
to keep me from veering off into a tidal wave of tears that have already been wept,
and I obsess,
desperate to know about the one who shares something of my own.
How could he be gone?
How could they let him go?
What would he think if he knew he could live nowadays?
What would he think if he knew corporate greed let’s people die these days?
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