he knew this air,
knew this monumental procession of cloud
rain hangs in the air
without pressure or promise
but I don’t know how he knew the rain
or this ragged coastline
in a way that was his alone,
or knew the tangle of lives
on most mornings for a dozen years
I saw him sit on the barstool
at Brazil and Rex would say, the wit
and wisdom of David Peterson:
Never eat anything bigger than your head
and Never put anything
smaller than your
elbow in your ear
while Dave read the paper, measured the bites
of his breakfast,
drank his coffee, and he and Rex
grumped about the world and state of business
Dave turning his face sideways to comment,
bringing his voice up to air
from a certain depth, a depth of certainty.
The absence of him is hard and present.
After Brazil, for a baker’s dozen years
he was my most regular coffee client,
I measured my consistency by his. Always
knowing I could rely on him
to let me know if the quality of service suffered
from changes in circumstance—tangle.
The lives he kept me updated with. The years passed.
He never asked to be celebrated,
Never asked for the praise he was due
as solo dad to his two children
for the way they prospered—he told me
how they were doing, how they did.
Had my admiration always, and I imagine
many were and are impressed because
he was an impressive man, whose
good works were never good works and
he kept out of the light they reflected
on him. He never commanded the respect
shown him. A look was enough, as
others are better placed to say, in his profession
also outside of the light
his fingers moving over the controls in the
little light on the desk, wearing black,
tweaking the sound to the precise spec
of the gear so it got the praise not him.
He would not ask to be celebrated like this
but I ask myself what it is to do right
by him and this writing is my work, Dave.
The rain that was pendant
fell for a while and has passed, clouds have
dispersed. I have asked about the air:
what does it mean to have breathed a while
in it and then not to be?
not to be present in it and sharing in it, the
tangle of lives—Never leave a lead
tangled. A cable has a memory of being twisted
it needs time in the heat of the sun to lose
for it to be coiled. It means a
certain amount of work needs to be done,
then a little sleep,
before it is, for it to be, perfect.
— for David Peterson (d. 30 December 2020)
[Simon Taylor,
2 January 2021]
{ 2021 01 02 }
