Each of us in that circle of friends had our own affection for Gordon. I revered him as a creature not quite human, veering off from the species on the positive side. We were about 20 when we met. Rumor had it he'd lasted a few months at college and quit because, he said, it deprived him of thought. I believe he built things of wood when I knew him.
Gordon was beautiful. His body held the grace of Michelangelo's David, his face the independence of a Moriarty or a James Dean, but with more kindness. For me, Gordon was untouchable, perhaps unreachable. It never occurred to me to love him in the way of a woman and a man. I remember hearing (not from him) that he never watched movies or TV because he wanted to experience his life in real time, not second hand.
My clearest memory of Gordon is getting completely winded running down a hill in a small town, both of us panting at the deserted intersection below, waiting for the others to catch up. He placed one strong hand on my back, the other on my chest and cast his crazed, pleased excitement through me. 'Do you feel that?' he almost whispered. 'That's life.'
I never needed to know Gordon as a mortal. He was the scent of baking bread for which I hungered and hunger still. He was a human embodiment of a spirit world. An early harbinger of spring. A sure knowledge of my unencumbered birthright.
Do you feel that? That's life.
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