Early ’80s, Dearborn, MI.

September 23: sister Caitlin’s birthday. It’s fair to say it creeps up slowly each year, the winds a little cooler than the week before, sometimes an early morning fog and brittle grasses that are warm again by noon. One year—I can’t remember which—I gave her this frame, having snatched the enclosed picture from an old photo album. For thirteen years now, it has perched on my desks and dressers, the thing I’d be sure to grab in the event of a fire.

Strange that it was only last year that I realized John Coltrane—whose records account for a good 15% of my non-collector’s collection—shared the same birthday as Caitlin. Having no finite ideas about things astrological, it’s nevertheless a nice coincidence to ponder, in this case. As much as any writer or thinker, he’s my hero in the realm of art; yet he spoke so few words. He didn’t need to, of course. I suppose Caitlin didn’t need to, either. It’s not language I think of when remembering her, but an essence that’s always changing and full of wide-open feelings I’ve only begun to understand.

Honor to lives lived, the good ones.
SMH