Alex and I wound up staying far later than we planned in SoCa, because the experience of being in Val's home, with her beloved friends, talking, piecing together the puzzle, going through old journals and clothes, weeping, eating, drinking and talking some more seemed impossible to finish. As a result, we wound up arriving in Berkeley about 3AM Monday morning, no small decision for parents of a toddler who wakes at 7:30 AM every morning without fail. Luckily Nana had him, and we didn't have to retrieve him until 9.
While in Val's apartment, I happened upon a beautiful journal which consisted entirely of blank pages except for one poem, which appears below. Val's roommate Jennifer confirmed that she had written it. It was so beautiful, I somehow didn't believe it, not because I didn't think Val was capable of writing such a poem (and until this moment when I googled the first line was prepared to credit her), but something about the voice. In fact it was by Francis William Bourdillon. The versions I saw differed slightly, probably due to varying translations.
But again, I quibble. The fact of this poem, standing alone in an otherwise empty journal, given the circumstances, spoke volumes.
The night
Has a thousand eyes
The day
But one
Yet the light
Of a whole world dies
At the set of the sun
The mind
Has a thousand eyes
The heart
But one
Yet the light
Of a whole life dies
When love is done
and just now I feel inspired to add this:
Your friends
Have a thousand hearts
And you
But one
Yet the light
Of community dims
At your setting sun