[note: the image I foundhere in a google search for 'red-haired boy' - it is NOT Drew BUT, when I came across it, I was shocked speechless.... because it is IDENTICAL to how I remember him - and checking with D. he too was pole-axed at the resemblance.]
There is a green sign on the highway to and
from Montreal, Route 778 – Moulinette Road, Long Sault. If you take the long winding road, you will
reach a small community nestled just up from the St. Lawrence, a pristine
wilderness of tree and flower-studded meadows, rocky beaches with pristine
inlets and campgrounds much in demand during the hot, lazy days of summer and
into the blazing glory of fall.
A spirit waits for me there, on the green
verge at the side of the road, dotted with echenecia and black eyed susans
swaying in the breeze from the cars which breathe past with a sigh, blind to
the figure which drifts through the thick stand of trees stretching deep into
the countryside. The transport trucks that
trundle along the black ribbon of asphalt like lumbering pachyderms, sense not
the quiet soul which waits patiently for my frequent journeys past, dreaming of
a youth forever suspended in the past.
His name was Drew.
His hair was a deep, rich dark red and fell
in waves and curls well below his shoulders, thick and the envy of many, a
source of merriment between he and I as we vied for the wildest locks. His eyes were a clear, glacial blue, at times
merry, dancing with humour and affection, but could harden into the
street-smart realities of his Celtic ancestry and rough upbringing. But I remember most the soft, limpid kindness
of those lovely eyes, compassionate and yearning looking into my own as he once
again would blot my tears and cup my face.
D. filled my soul, my heart, my mind and my
attention in those early days; his actions and reactions, his absences and
small, careless cruelties, his compelling sexuality against which I was helpless
obsessed me. He was my puppeteer and
like a marionette, I danced and cavorted to the tunes he chose and like a
broken doll, would lie helpless in the corner when his interest turned
elsewhere.
Often, on those cruel nights when D.’s
demons drove him from me with a shrug and a careless wave, it was Drew who
would appear beside me, his big hands gentle on my face as he wiped away tears,
his voice gentle in my ears as he crooned comfort and reassurance and assured me
of my worth. He called me Treasure; I
remember that now, though for a very long time I had forgotten. He would walk me home after D. abandoned me, his
big arm warm around my shoulder, our hair, almost identical, curling in the
hot, humid embrace of a Montreal summer night, our thick, red waves twining and
dancing as we walked the deserted streets.
At my home, he would lift my hand to his
lips and kiss it gently, and run his fingers along my cheek and take upon the
tip, the glistening salt drop of my tears and sip it, gently, into his cruelly
beautiful sculpted lips, then sighing, tell me again I was a Treasure and send
me in.
Even while I felt grateful for his comfort
and caring, I was blind to what I think now might have been more; so entwined
was I with my obsession, compelling and overwhelming, with D. that there
existed not even a small space in my soul that recognized trueness of caring,
the genuineness of want.
But I cared for him, my friend and warrior
Drew.
Though somewhat a ‘bad boy’ like many I
knew in the day, I felt comfortable and safe around him, relaxed and confident
of being accepted and liked. In
hindsight, I was an innocent among a lot of rather bad wolves and often marvel
that it must have been that naivety, the freshness of it that stayed their
hands and made their fierce grins gentle, the predatory slavering want,
quieten.
Long Sault was a favourite haunt of the
crowd among which I mingled, a place where weekend bacchanalias of indulgence
played out, maenads and satyrs cavorted and played out their riotous revels
against the background of campfire and the blaze of stars in a wine dark
sky. But for me, innocent that I was in
those days, Long Sault was off-limits and though I sometimes envied and
secretly yearned to experience the wildness of those summer nights, I remained
obediently home, D’s secret escape, his to take or not, his property and
despite the heartache and the agony, content to be so.
And one hot, humid summer night, his eyes
alight with the dying cry of starlight, with colours weaving and dancing in a
moonless sky, his body insubstantial and ethereal, Drew staggered his way to
the black river of asphalt and opened his arms and his heart to the glory of
light which swept through the hot summer breeze and grasped eternity .
And I do not pass Exit 778 without thinking
of my friend Drew and feeling a poignant sadness for the dreaming spirit which
drifts insubstantial along the black-topped highway and dreams of youth and a
future never realized.
Drew, you are not forgotten.
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