Wednesday, January 28, 2015

To Live For Stephen

 It was in the early eighties, 1983 to be exact, that I took a few months out of my regular life to do some traveling alone in Europe.  It was a bright, but cool, winter morning that I took the boat over from the port of Dover, UK, to Calais, on the coast of France.  From there I hitched a ride to Bologna.  After first settling into a small hotel I went out to find a bite to eat, and returned shortly thereafter to the hotel to finish writing a song I’d been working on.  It was quite noisy outside my window as the walls of the room were pretty thin, so I had a difficult time concentrating and decided to take my guitar back down to the town square where I’d had dinner. It was pretty quiet there.  In fact it was all but deserted at that time of the night.  I set myself down on a low ledge that enclosed a quietly trickling fountain and began working on my new song.

It wasn’t long before two young men came by, stopped in front of me, and just looked at me for what seemed to be forever.  They looked to be about nineteen or twenty years old.  They were not staring me down, or trying to intimidate me.  It was not like that at all.  They seemed in awe, really.  They seemed sad, and they seemed happy, all at the same time.  It was not something I understood, or could easily figure out.  They just stared.  So after awhile I said hello, and asked them their names.  I spoke a little French, but they spoke pretty good English.  They said their names were Patrice, and Philippe.  After a little more ‘get acquainted’ talk they asked if I’d sing some songs, and was it OK if they just stayed and listened. 

I sang a couple of songs for them, but they wanted me to sing some more.  And some more, and some more after that.  I wanted to accommodate them, although I wasn’t sure why.  They stood there intently listening at first, and then tears began rolling down their cheeks like rain on a moonlit window, and soon they were sobbing uncontrollably.  I was becoming choked up myself, very confused, but very curious as well.  Patrice and Philippe then began emptying their pockets into my guitar case, giving me all of the money they had.  That’s when I stopped singing and asked what was going on.  I didn’t want their money, but I did want to know what had been affecting them so profoundly.  They called me Stephen as they asked if they could take me to a nearby café to sit down and talk. 

At the café Patrice began recounting a tragic event they had been through a few days earlier.  It was life changing for both of them.  The two of them and their best friend, Stephen, had been in a horrific auto accident.  Patrice and Philippe both survived the crash unscathed, but Stephen didn’t make it.  He died in their arms minutes after the collision.  They’d buried him earlier in the day before coming down to the town square to wander the streets in search of their friend, to reclaim, as it were, some of the memories the three of them had created there together.  I was heartbroken by their story, and began crying along with them.  It was a physical grief.  Their pain had become my pain.  They were that vulnerable, that devastated, and that broken.

Patrice offered the stunning observation that I looked and sounded exactly like their departed friend.  “Not kind of like Stephen,” he said.  But,“ exactly like him.”  Stephen, like me, wrote songs and played guitar and sang.  Philippe said it was a miracle that I was here, and that Steph had come back to them through me.  I felt that the two of them were stretching the reality of what they were seeing and hearing because of their grief, and to meet their need for Stephen to not be gone.  I think it was a reasonable conclusion for me to arrive at.  And then Patrice reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a newspaper clipping about the accident.  Along with the article there was a picture of Stephen.  I gasped audibly, and kind of choked on my words as I tried to respond.  I was stunned, shocked, bewildered.  Stephen was me.  The photo and I were identical, truly identical.  Suddenly I understood the full scope of their agonizing expression.

We talked until the café closed, and then we talked some more back at the fountain where we’d found each other earlier.  They told me I would live for Stephen, that he would be alive, and that he would be remembered through my life. 

After a long and emotional evening, after lingering hugs, we left each other knowing that we’d probably never see one another again.  But although we separated that night I have never felt that we truly parted ways.  I have kept Patrice and Philippe with me over these past years.  And Stephen has remained even closer, in many ways guiding my path.  Not in the literal sense, but throughout my life there have been countless moments of decision when I would access the memory of Stephen, and make the choices that I felt would honor him were he alive today.  And in many mysterious ways he is.

It has been an exercise in living at times for someone else.  And he has been for me a governor of conscience, of behavior, and of attitude.  For this I am grateful to Stephen; and equally grateful to Patrice and Philippe, my young friends
from long ago . . . . . . . . . . . .  and far away.

This is the song I wrote for the boys the following day.


Weep For Stephen

Took the boat over from the Port of Dover to the coast of France
Calais was the place where I landed safely half by chance.
Hitched a ride to Bologna, felt so alone, was tryin' to lose my past
Didn't know what I'd find but knew that I had to get there fast.

And I sat in the village square with my guitar and a prayer
and sang all of the songs I'd ever written.
Patrice and Philippe listened for a moment,
then they both began to weep for Stephen.
Friends they had been from the beginning to the end
they could not comprehend the lesson.
I sang about the years, the sorrow and the tears,
they stood alone and wept for Stephen.

Took me to a small cafe' to explain what was goin' on.
They'd been in an accident, could not prevent it, only four days gone.
Stephen did not walk away this time although he tried, with the two of them.
But fell forever silent, right before their eyes, they saw his young life end.

And I sat in the village square with my guitar and a prayer
and sang all of the songs I'd ever written.
Patrice and Philippe listened for a moment
then they both began to weep for Stephen.
Friends they had been from the beginning to the end
they could not comprehend the lesson.
I sang about the years, the sorrow and the tears,
they stood alone and wept for Stephen.

They said I looked and sounded just exactly like their departed friend,
that he's alive because of me and I would be the one to live for him.
Showed me his picture from the paper later, naturally I was shocked to see
Stephen was the man that I had never planned, but somehow had come to be.

And I sat in the village square with my guitar and a prayer
and sang all of the songs I'd ever written.
Patrice and Philippe listened for a moment
then they both began to weep for Stephen.
Friends they had been from the beginning to the end
they could not comprehend the lesson.
I sang about the years, the sorrow and the tears,
they stood alone and wept for Stephen.

They stood alone and wept for Stephen.