Big Lew

You’ll always be there, with all of us, in our pockets full of memories. Like the time you thought
I was trying to get over on a presentation in Fiction 101. I really never read On the Road before
and when I did, it all changed. Or that time you advised me to stop drinking heavily and I didn’t
listen. It’s been almost a year without a drop and there’s more clarity than ever. Now so much of
your wisdom clicks. I remember you said you stopped smoking pot in your 30s, it made you
paranoid, but we shared a joint after reading at the Bowery. You were surprised how grass had
changed. When I was worried about grad school and not being well-read with classics, you said
who cares, read what you love. One day The Hellbound Heart, one day Train Ride. There we
were, sitting in your office the day my wife went into labor with my first born. All the parental
advice was just as helpful as a workshop or choosing career paths. And sometimes when I’m
roaring at my children, I think of you and wonder if you ever yelled. In an instant I realize
whatever it is, it’s not that serious, then apologize and give love. It’s bizarre that when I first met
you, a punk 20something, I had no clue that I’d one day be writing poetry, teaching students and
raising a family. But here I am, taking plunge after plunge. I’m always falling, that’s my schtick,
but now I’ve gotten that parachute you provided. Although it hurts that you’re gone, I’m now
gliding through the sky, like a bushel of balloons released at the end of a child’s birthday party.