Dear Lyd

Dear Lyd,

 

Let me preface this

by telling you that

despite my Catholic immersion

as a child, 

I’ve turned out an unbeliever

as you and Jungle were.

 

And I think you had a role 

to play.

 

I’d challenge priests, 

Sunday school teachers

and obsequious lay ministers

to tell me that you would go 

to hell when you died,

having listed the litany of your traits;

you were and still are

the best person

I have ever known.

 

Jordan Peterson makes 

the argument that we

are Christians, whether 

we like it or not,

conditioned by Judeo-Christian values,

rather than simply human ones.

I think of you when watching 

him, with his legs crossed

and fingers stabbing at the air;

 

he’d dissolve in one of your hugs;

he’d be certain of the supernovas in humanity.

I know I was. 

 

I’ve named my daughter after you.

You two missed each other

by nineteen years,

a cosmically insignificant period;

I like the idea of floating so far from 

the Earth that the time between the pair

of you seems to touch

and you can meet before my oxygen runs out.

 

Even so, there are clues of you in her;

she’s kind 

and I’m certain she has your laugh.

Then there are also the famous Leah-Lyd hugs;

that’s where I feel you most.

She hugs with every heartstring

just as you did Lyd.

 

It’s because of her in fact

that I have to end this now.

She’s pointing out the beautiful day outside

and that she’s still in her pyjamas. 

I’ll give her a kiss from you.

 

Rest in peace, 

Roy