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he gave me two notebooks
before he left when i turned eighteen:
one blue. one yellow.
both three subject, mead, spiral bound
150 sheets/college ruled
9 1/2 x 6/24.1 x 15.2 cm
price tag from thrifty’s drugs $2.55.

they smell of mildew, dead letters
and faded recollections.
spirals warped and hinting
with the grit of rust.
teal lines in various stages of
pale decline. the words dark black
english. farsi. spiritual.
quotes from jesus to rumi in neat script.

intermittent drawings begging to be tattoos.
psychedelic lines wanting to carve skin and
embed themselves like topographical
transcendental lines on a map.

pages exposing this seeker on a hunt
for escape or meaning
something other, beyond:
the edge of the edge.

he read carlos castaneda books on the toilet
training in shamanism that he received
under the tutelage of a yaqui.
those trips imprinted in the drawings.

care of the soul is more than hunger for bread.
there is a pumpkin bread recipe in there
and a daily schedule that has him rising
at four am and in bed at nine:
mediating, painting, working, gardening.

fatherhood for him was leaving clues.
maybe somewhere beyond this world
we will finally meet and i can stitch them
back together for him and share a few of my own.