Maybe...

Maybe... The kindest man I ever met in this world died last month. I only found out just yesterday though, so the shock of it is still ringing in my ears. And in my head. And in my heart.

Sad. It really doesn't begin to cover the way I feel knowing this guy is not in the world anymore.

He was an artist. A talented one. More than a talented one- a gifted one. who, for the most part, labored in obscurity. Not that he cared. He just made art because that's what he was compelled to do. To earn a living, he taught. Art to high schoolers. and he was gifted at teaching too. Never have I seen a teacher who was more beloved by his students or who loved his students more. All his students. All of them. The ones who were artistic and the ones who were not. He especially loved one who was severely disabled and even had to use a computer to speak. He was mischievous. Loved to play jokes on his kids. But never mean. Just wanting to make them laugh and to understand humility and humanity. And love. He saw something special in every one of them. Every single one. He wished he'd had children of his own. His marriage failed. He drank too much. He'd show me proudly, the ranks of his kids who'd made it big in the world of fashion. Of graphic design. Of whereever Art led them. He'd tell me of the ones who sobbed their stories out to him. He foiled more than his share of bullies. The administration hated him. Because he didn't care about what they did. His classroom was where the misfits went to each lunch and to have someone smile at them just one time that day.

The man had a wicked sense of humor. A constant smirk of amusement. A twinkle always in his eye. A throaty laugh that came straight and often, from his heart.

Once he showed me the portfolio he made to get hired for his first teaching job. Back when portfolios were all the rage in hiring teachers. I'd seen a million portfolios. Most of which made me want to gag. His made me cry. It was a poem.

I think he was a poem.

How does a poem end? In this case. In his sleep. All alone. His heart giving way to something else.

He was a chain smoker. A chain drinker. To my great disgust, he was a lover of nascar. I would tell him, " if you would give up that dirty habit, I'll marry you." He would smirk and laugh and say, "you don't want to marry me." Emphasis on the ME. and he'd wink. Because he knew my heart was still somewhere else.

He was a wonderful, hearty cook. He'd message me and say, "please come up, I want to cook." I'd say, "ok." He didn't drink wine. But he always made sure there was wine for me.

He loved heartwarming movies. He loved movies about history and wars. He was something of a patriot. Although I always thought that was wierd. He had a wild mixture of conservative and liberal beliefs. He loved movies for little kids. He had a little sports car that he somehow acquired through a trade. But most of the time he drove the cheapest car that could be had. Which at the time was a pt cruiser. Ugg.

He did not like to go out. Except to his backyard where he grew vegetables and flowers that would make you drool.
He was dirt poor. He made his own furniture. Built the frames. Sewed the cushions. When his mother was dying of cancer, he moved her in. And cared for her. Until she died. He missed her openly and everyday, afterward. He had a grey cat named smokey who HATED me. I hated smokey back.

One time we went out somewhere nice. I dressed up. I wore make-up. He said, "wow" when i came to the door. He looked dashing. We were a pretty couple really. We ran into one of his students who told him he should keep me. He said, "if I could..."

He loved the Sunday paper. Sunday mornings were coffee, lying on the living room floor, cigarettes burning, pouring over every page. Front to back.

You couldn't make him angry. No matter how hard you'd try sometimes. You just couldn't make him mad. And after awhile, you just didn't want to.

He had not one speck of ambition. He loved technology. He could write like a dream. But rarely did. He was a good listener. In that he'd listen all the way through anything you'd be having an angry tirade about that day. Then. He'd hug you. And then you'd be ok.

He grew up poor. Dirt poor. Hungry every day poor. If he'd not had art, I doubt he'd have gone to college. I think he'd be in jail for misadventures. His sister was a college professor. His brother was i don't remember. He loved him but they were too different to be close. His dad was a drunk. His mother, a saint.

I don't know. I think maybe.... Maybe I loved him.

I think maybe i didn't realize it until yesterday.

I'd let him go. At some point, I just couldn't see us being together and I told him we both needed to move on. I remember i was mad because he didn't really protest. He just accepted what i said. I stopped coming over to dinner. We remained friends. On facebook and occassionallyon the phone. He moved away. We emailed. He invited me to visit. I didn't go.

I let him slip away. And then he slipped away. In his sleep.

And now on hearing, I am sad. Blue.as a girl can be.

And maybe? Maybe I loved him.

I mentioned he was kind. He was kind. you could hear it in his voice kind of kind. And I'm sad that all that kindness has passed out of this world.

Maybe.....