I was briefly living in Kelowna.
He was living in Whistler.
We knew each other for years. We were in the same scene if you will.
Steep runs,
deep powder
and
adrenaline.
Both of us painfully shy and awkward,
too timid for anything beyond a nod and a “Hey.”
The Halloween party was loud –
there was some thrash band –
and clumps of people I’d never seen before.
I stood against the back wall,
fur-clad with leather pants and a crotched bikini top.
He approached me from out of the shadows.
“We’re supposed to be together,” he motioned his hand at us.
He was fur-clad, with tight leather pants and shirtless.
Rock and roll wallflowers guarding the nearest exit.
Shortly thereafter, we were at my place making “rock star nachos.”
And shortly after that, I was stopped short by a huge Hendrix tattoo on his right shoulder.
He stayed with me for a few days.
We listened to music,
played air guitar to Hendrix,
laughed nonstop
and had a glorious time.
He was tender, corny, polite and beautiful.
We made plans for Spring when I’d move back to Van.
But he died before it could happen.
I often think of that Hendrix tattoo; the first time I saw it,
his beautiful smile,
and our Spring that never happened.
Last night, I dreamt of him.
We were riding bikes and had stopped at a crossing.
He leaned over to me and whispered,
“I’m going to die soon.”
But I already knew.
