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.
