linger

[note #25]

I’ve been asking friends what they remember of Richard.

Doug reminds me of the spring after hurricane Gloria, how he and Richard helped me with the boat. I’d been gone all winter, to Paris, to Spain. The last two months had been in Morocco. After I dragged myself back to America I drove straight to Provincetown. I still had my truck. I crashed with Richard—I didn’t have anywhere else to stay.

The boat was on land in Truro, first at Susan Baker’s, but when we started scraping she asked me to move it—they’d just had a baby, they were worried about the dust. I had it moved it to the zendo downwind of her house, and we got to work.

Each morning Doug would stop by for coffee, then the three of us would pile onto the bench seat of my truck—me at the wheel, Doug’s arm around Richard, Richard’s arm around Doug. They weren’t lovers, but they were affectionate—not with me nor anyone else, as far as I could tell, but they were with each other. Like two puppies.

We’d work for a few hours—scraping, painting, caulking—then jump in the ocean.

I’d like to linger there, for just a little longer.