Liz

by Agneta Falk

Liz
In the memory of Liz Cooper, 1931–2019

There was nothing we could do
when you charged
a train on one track
we ducked, we weaved
trying to avoid the inevitable collision
the total impact
we fell, we got up
dusted ourselves off
began again
with the lace cut out of the cloth
exposing the threadbare weave
of our very beings
as you could cut in with that glorious smile
which could melt glaciers
as hard as your beliefs

In the ups and downs
of being your friend
& vice versa, one knew for sure
that there was no point
looking back: Forward was the way

You said once, before Chris died,
“We all look at the same moon”
I felt you thinking of her
in Honduras, it was a moment
almost tender, of longing,
making me think of you
whenever I look up at the moon

Shortly after, when she was gone
I entered your little back-to-back
house, high above Hebden Bridge;
in there It was as if grief was a cake
you had to cut a slice out of
In Parma, years later, as the train
pulled out of the station
I caught a glimpse of you
at the end of the platform
in a bright red coat;
you weren’t waving,
just standing there, looking
and I burst into a flood of tears
thinking this was the last time
I would see you

And that was the feeling
I often had with you, being
at the end of a cliff, not quite
secure on my feet, waving
in the wind, gasping for breath
between laughing our heads off
or diving into some abyss

You at the steering wheel
magnificently elegant in
your later years, almost at
times coquettish
as if you’d suddenly discovered
that looking good was as sharp
as your tongue

The other night you came to me
In a dream, looking svelte and tanned
living on some exotic island, where it
was very warm.  Your house — Adobe-style,
with windows without panes of glass — ;
there you swam in turquoise water,
wore a dress with large, printed flowers;
there wasn’t a bad bone in you,
only the widest smile of content.