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For Nicholas

Original Post
March 16, 2013
Edited
March 16, 2016

My only Saturday Post.

Today, was your death.
Suicide.

Why did you do it?
Finding yourself in the corners of your suicide closet, noose in hand, ready to exit your successful life.

My mortality deems you already dead before you turned two.
She chose You, your Mother.
It’s as if a piece of her extinction was passed through you as the gas curtains closed upon her.
Tragedy at its best.
Defeat at its worst.

You, look so much like her.
She would have loved you more.

image

Dr. Nicholas Hughes in 2000 in his office at the University of Alaska Fairbanks campus.
Photo by Dave Partee.

Nick And The Candle Stick

”I am a miner. The light burns blue. Waxy stalactites Drip and thicken, tears

The earthen womb

Exudes from its dead boredom. Black bat airs

Wrap me, raggy shawls, Cold homicides. They weld to me like plums.

Old cave of calcium Icicles, old echoer. Even the newts are white,

Those holy Joes. And the fish, the fish—-Christ! They are panes of ice,

A vice of knives, A piranha Religion, drinking

Its first communion out of my live toes. The candle Gulps and recovers its small altitude,

Its yellows hearten. O love, how did you get here? O embryo

Remembering, even in sleep, Your crossed position. The blood blooms clean

In you, ruby. The pain You wake to is not yours.

Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses. With soft rugs—-

The last of Victoriana. Let the stars Plummet to their dark address,

Let the mercuric Atoms that cripple drip Into the terrible well,

You are the one Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.”

Sylvia Plath

*My own Mother called me on March 16, 2009, telling me
Nicholas Hughes killed himself.
I had no need to ask ”Who?”
Shocked then anger came over me as if I controlled the weather.
My fondness expired for Plath’s own destiny, but her work remains as my exemplar.


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