I walked today among the records of your passing. I tip-toed among the stacks of paper, themselves a relic of a bygone era, and turned the pages of a nation’s history looking for you. It was a irony that you should lay there, dyed into the fabric of a tree, yourself forever bound to that final resting place. And so I remembered the dappled light of where it ended, and wished you that peace forever.

She told me a story once of your coming to her, climbing the trellis like some latter day Romeo, ascending when he himself had stayed firmly earth-bound. It is that I keep in my memory as the stacks rise above and around me, each of them holding some small portion of the lives of so many, each one as distant from their own family, their own descendants, as you and I. Vitality is nothing it seems, when each of us can so easily be transferred to an old medium, a glaring white crypt, in memorandum.

But vitality and the exuberance of a pop-culture youth it was that brought you together. A new era of young people’s music, art, literature. A revolution in thinking and doing that reverberated out of the victory against brutality, a flower revolution wanting to drive narrowness and hatred out of our social fabric forever.

I was born from naivety it seems.

You were an avatar of the most popular of that popular culture. A mime. And the culture it swept you up and carried you to that resting place beneath the soft light of the trees, placing you there to be found all those many years later, in sadness, in expectation. Nothing more than a glimmer of what was, a word shared among those you left behind. A word which I cannot speak.