Story for Ned's Edit
by Ann Bogle
He didn't die, in my head; in my head, he lived. I love how he lived. I loved his sky wire. He went to his doom unafraid, calling to no one, thinking of someone, characterized by a thoughtful heart and mind. All people would want to meet a man kind and thoughtful in those ways. He spelled his kname Kned, but he was not a knave and not knaïve, more Kanuck or knood. He neighbored his plants, served as father to future round tomatoes. He gave freely what there was to give. I gave a story: Two nights before his heart burst its strings near sundown Shabbat, we met at my house to wait for paint to dry. We could make an evening of that. The Russian paint crew had returned to paint my front door Rave Red. The back door they painted Rose Beige. Sergei's young wife had just delivered. The paint dried evenly quickly but not quickly enough to let me lock the doors and leave, so Ned came to my house bearing a twelve-pack of Peroni in green bottles, Christmas colors of Italy on the carton. We sat in yard chairs near the pansies in the pot my mother gives me in May. We etched our last deep conversation on two stair steps. By July, the pansies bush in the heat like untamed pasta. I let them grow and do not cut them. The mass, the tangle of green threads leads to white magenta blooms.
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Author's Note
Ned died of a sudden heart attack on July 12, 2013. This story takes place on July 10th.
As a broadside at Ana Verse:
http://annbogle.blogspot.com/2013/08/broadside-3-sfne-watermark-washout.html
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God, that is beautiful.
Who would not want to meet a man with a brave brain?
I'm there with the Peroni and the summer. *
This is very touching, Ann.
"we engraved, we etched our last deep conversation on two stairs."
What a gorgeous little detail.
I like this piece a lot. The syntax, the detail.
"...we met to wait for paint to dry."
The unexpected irony of the actual truth in that...
Very touching and real. thank you...
*
I found this to be deeply true of heart, an excellent piece of prose, Ann.
*
"He spelled his kname Kned, but he was not a knave and not naïve, more like a Canuck or a hood." I klike. *
Such wonderful writing of a tender moment. *
"He didn't die, in my head; in my head, he lived. I loved how he lived. I loved his sky wire..." Great opening. Strong piece. *
Small changes to an enormous moment. 7/26/13 8:03 p.m.
Ann, this piece, which you wrote with love and art, just breaks my heart. I'm very sorry for your loss.
*
Something happened, and all I want is to make art. Art is color. All I want is to make color art. Those who have read, thank you for your comments and praise. Visit Ana Verse to see the color of it.
The leitmotif of color makes for a beautiful underlying effect to the clear, emotive words --love, brave--that play over the surface. Fine, vivid and potent.
am a mess, you made me cry. all i can say. so fine. so fine.
Fave, Ann. I love this piece and this line, especially:
"We etched, engraved our last deep conversation on two stair steps."
The word "nood" was a little difficult to verify. It means "indispensable person" or condition of being indispensable. It seems unrelated to noodnik.
*
Thanks, Meg, David, and Beate as well.
Small edits and graphic element added, 6 a.m. on 7/28/13
The sound of color, the joy of language and the noise it makes, the deliberate, emphatic alliteration, and not cutting the flowers because cutting is ending, all of this is because of Ned's life. Greatness.
Kned would like it. Nice job Ann.
Heartfelt and true. Good work.*
Goodness. This is beautiful and heartbreaking.
"We etched, engraved our last deep conversation on two stair steps."
The sounds and feelings of this live on and on. So does Ned.
* for your story, and for you, Ann.
Beautifully done.
Revisited this just now and had to reaffirm just how strong it is. The knowledge of pain and loss required to write something so true...
Thanks to the readers.
" We etched, engraved our last deep conversation on two stair steps."
So fortunate for you both. A beautiful, heartfelt tribute, Ann. *
Way to turn grief into art. Many can't.
Changes, 2:53 a.m., August 4, 2013.
Thank you for reading.