Philia, Agape
Terese Robison
Two men in different parts of my life were my other half, my 鈥渟oul mates.鈥 They were Barry (1) and Bob (2). If they had known each other, we might have had a soul triangle.
We could say anything to each other.
I met Barry when we were both expatriates in Mexico City. Impish and slim, Barry was all lightness and curved-up smile, he was gaiety beyond 鈥済ay.鈥 He called me darling, and the two notes of the word were tickling and easeful. I had a darkness helped by some ease.
Barry was an actor and lyricist, and I a dilettante. We both moved back to New York City after a few years. I visited him on 13th Street off Fifth Avenue, inhaling the freshness of those surroundings.
When I moved to Danbury, CT, my second other half pulled me into friendship almost at first sight. Bob taught gifted students at the school where I was a sub. A failed poet and novelist, he was also a failed hedonist, he claimed. But his whooping laugh poked holes in that theory while I knew him. He planned to pile his unpublished books on his grave, where they鈥檇 sell and make a killing; he relished thinking that.
If B1 and 2 had known each other, we would have had a three-way of the soul. We鈥檇 make an agape love feast, perhaps. At this communal meal, we鈥檇 dine on red papaya sprinkled with lime, tacos of squash flower, barbecued goat and Irish stew, caramel flan, whiskied fruited tea loaf鈥
The plural of agape (agapae) also can mean funerary gatherings, but we certainly don鈥檛 want to think about that, the three of us. We don鈥檛 want to think of Barry鈥檚 death from AIDS at thirty-five or Bob鈥檚 sepsis in his sixties. He wasn鈥檛 sincerely old and would never have been.
We won鈥檛 hear Barry telling me, 鈥淚鈥檝e plucked hope鈥檚 last feathers, darling,鈥 during our final phone call. He was cachectic, used up; I would be horrified seeing him 鈥渋n flagrante derelicto鈥 (his brio rising for an instant once more?).
A late poem of Bob鈥檚 has a line we might wonder about, 鈥淒eath isn鈥檛 the lights going out forever, it鈥檚 seeing clearly in the dark.鈥
During a brief part of my life I had soul mates. I let them out of my thoughts for only a few moments, and they were gone.
But not entirely. We鈥檙e picnicking in forms of friendship. Adding flavors to the feast.
Terese Robison has lived in Mexico and several states in the U.S. She鈥檚 been a book editor, interpreter, and tutor-mentor for youth on probation and now teaches writing at community colleges. Her work has appeared in Hiram Poetry Review, West Texas Literary Review, Tahoma Literary Review, *82 Review, BULL, Pithead Chapel, Queen Mob鈥檚 Teahouse, LitroNY, Permafrost and other journals, as well as in several anthologies compiled from awards.