I remember a cousin who sang like a bird. Her passion for the lord and her love of life amazes me still. She would pick me up as I walked home from school in her 69 mustang. She was called home on a Sunday morning coming home from the church she loved; Pam was 17.
Mitzi was my idol. She was to me the epitome of cool. Her big bell bottom jeans and shag hair was the style. We always were in trouble, sneaking smokes and lighting fireworks. I recall blowing up a outhouse at a local church, only to be caught before we returned home. We threw a cat in the creek just to see if they could walk on water. You know what, they can. I remember not being able to sleep, just laying and talking all night, holding hands. Real love man, so strong and pure. I wish I could feel that again. We lip sang songs and we danced (I never really have danced since) putting on shows for our parents and friends. Mitzi was called home one night, riding with friends just a couple miles from home. I still meet people who knew her and the memories pour back on me like flooding waters.
Hennon was a few years younger than me. I should have spent more time with him. He was tough as nails with a lot of love for family and friends. He was the man around his school, and would come to my house to stay all night and go see some girls he knew here. I would usually get a call from some girls’ mom to come and get him. The last time I saw him was after one of those incidents. We went to eat breakfast that morning and had a laugh about the night before. Hennon was gone in a flash a few hours later. A Trans-am and a few friends at 120 plus mph removed him from everything but my memories. He was 16.
Billy was just like me. We saw the world in the same way. The difference was I straightened up and wild Bill partied on. He roamed the streets of Chicago taking what he could, but, it was never enough. Bill was tough, his words strong and his gun was nickel. He bragged his wallet was fat. He would come down to see me and we would go to the races. He would say “I should move down here” but I knew he never would. Bill called me on fathers’ day to tell me his woman had lost their child. He was upset and had been up for several days using cocaine and drinking hard. We talked for a couple hours and said our good byes. Bill never saw another day. He ate a bullet at midnight. He had a gun, a pile of coke, and 38 cents in his pocket.
The clouds I see in the sky, I believe they are there. People are here for a while, to enjoy, to love and learn from. Nevertheless, just like the clouds they are soon gone, floating away or shut out by the dark of night leaving us with cool days and warm memories. Warm blues cover me.