When I think of all
the stories and things
I know you still had left
to tell and teach,
it makes me want to
go to Africa,
put my ear to the ground
at the place
where your blood returned
to the earth,
and listen.
I really don’t remember many things about him, but yet, after nearly 25 years, I can still see his face so clearly in my mind.
I can’t recall ever having a one-on-one conversation with him, but I’m sure, at some point, during the three months that I took his class, I must have.
Of his many lessons, there is only one that I actually remember, and even in that memory, I don’t remember him. What I do remember is walking outside, far from our school, and at his instruction, listening intently for the sounds that entered my ears.
Walking meditation. This was my first experience with it, and during a high school elective class, he, Mr. Nowak, was the teacher who introduced me to it.
It’s strange. I have forgotten pretty much everything about him, but I don’t think I will ever forget him. He was the type of person who somehow burrows inside of you and just stays there.
When I heard about his death a decade ago, in a traffic accident at a crossroads in Africa, I wrote this poem. I happened to come across it the other day while cleaning out the random documents in my computer and decided to share it here with all of you.
As always, thank you for reading.