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This poem was written by my friend Jean Jones. I had told him about the death of our friend, Thomas Childs. I could not believe it either. I still sometimes have a hard time believing it. I am told he died of a massive heart attack. It seems to unnatural for us to lose a friend like this. I have a voice mail from his boss. Sometimes, I think of calling that number, as if the news could be different... as if I'd find out that Thomas isn't really dead. I want to say he will be missed but that is a bit of an understatement. So, what can I say?
I Don't Understand
Whenever it happens, I don't understand except for rare instances.
I will go backwards here and try to recollect.
When my mother died, it was a complete shock.
Her last words to me were, "Same time next week then?"
after I had taken her to the Dollar Tree that Sunday
after visiting her at the nursing home.
I said, "Yes, same time next week,"
and I never spoke to her again.
The following Tuesday I got a call
from the emergency room physician
at New Hanover Memorial Regional in Wilmington
and I was told that she had died of a massive heart attack.
My brother died in prison
only several months before he was scheduled to be released
and I told him he could live with me for several months
before trying to make it on his own two feet.
The doctor at the prison said he did not want to take all of his AIDs medications.
I received a call from my father's nursing home
saying he was going to die within 24 hours.
I showed up and spend most of the night with him.
I went back home that night
and I got a call the next morning saying he was dead.
And now you, Thomas Childs,
a man my exact age who I went to school with at UNC-W,
I remember when you used to be dj
and you got involved with those young woman and it cost you your job,
and then you got married,
and your wife died, and then you were in jail for breaking the law,
but you were out, and you were starting a new life,
and you wrote poems of starting over,
and Bruce was supporting you,
taking pictures of you, publishing you,
and now he's starting over, marrying an Iranian wife in Turkey,
and then I got an email from him about your death,
and it reminds me of the first time I heard about a friend dying-
Sam Ray, with his suicide, and I had just seen him for several weeks
at my apartment before his death,
and the last time I saw you was at Bottega,
reading some of your new poems,
and Bruce had taken pictures of you
and I dropped you and Bruce off at Bruce's motel room
and you seemed hopeful about your future prospects,
you were always hopeful,
and now to hear about your death, does it ever make sense?
