Knowing When To Leave
It's 06:25 PST, on April 7th, and nothing's happening in the sky right now
Notes: In the spirit of creating a body of work that is strong enough to keepy myself and others safe, I must admit that the following essay-missive-eulogy-horoligicon mentions and even depicts suicide. Please keep yourself safe and avoid reading this post. If you or someone you know is struggling with sucidial thoughts, feelings, or intentions, 988 Lifeline provides free, confidential, judgement-free care. Call or text 988 today.
2014
“My Life Closed Twice Beffore Its Close,” a poem by Emily Dickinson, invites its reader to contemplate the nature of death and departure. “Parting is all we know of Heaven, / All we need of Hell,” a powerful line, has left me arrested since high school. Even then, I experienced so much death, sudden and elected. Three thousand words on behalf of one particular election is excessive. Admittedly, I only need a three: I miss you.
2015
Matt stood there dripping, I stood there waiting, and a white slatted door wedged itself between us. He shook his damp hair, flinging water everywhere. Tepid pearls threw themselves against the verdant walls, rapped an empty wicker basket, flecked then stained the mirror. It tricked my ears, made them hear a gathering rain. Every droplet moved from where it fell and spilled into a puddle on the stone-washed floor. Clinging to browning stalks of Matt’s hair, one bead stayed behind. It balanced on the edge of his widow’s peak, full of nerve and daring. Tipping forward, the fleck dove down the marble landscape of his body. It spun down his forehead like glass, happily tripping through furrowed trenches, making a path of downward cross-hatching grins.
2016
Every time I hear traditional marriage vows, I grimace. “I...take thee...to be my lawfully wedded husband or wife” sounds like a government-sanctioned kidnapping. “To have and to hold” ensures a thorough and forcible affair. I am convinced a lawyer drafted the next part. “From this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish.” Here lies a list of terms and conditions with nary a loophole in sight. “Sickness” and “health” are paired together by the conjunction “and.” So are “love” and “cherish.” Both pairs break the gathering prepositional chain, creating an incidental chiasmus. It implores us to love in sickness, cherish in health. I may be reaching but I doubt it. Rhetorical figures will out. Such curious turns of phrase! “Till death do us part,” however, is another beast entirely.
Believe it or not, it once read “till death us depart,” but changed as Middle English became Modern. I prefer the latter because it indicates departure’s earliest connotations: namely, death and division. These are the loopholes of marriage. They’re also our greatest fears. We fear them so much that we’ve made partnership more than desirable. We’ve made it holy. Parting and departure are seen as devilish opposites. To conquer our fears, we’ve glorified coming and vilified going. I find that sad. There are times when going is crucial, necessary. Without the opportunity to leave, we’re left with few choices, robbed of the power to egress.
2017
On December 1st, 1968, the musical Promises, Promises opened at the Shubert Theater on Broadway. I won’t bore you with its sexist plot or forgetful choreography. I will shed light on the show’s crowning achievement: Burt Bacharach’s music and Hal David’s lyrics. Two years later, the composer and lyricist won a Grammy Award for the show’s album. Dionne Warwick, a legend in her own right, would borrow a tune or two and release them as hit singles. “Knowing When To Leave” was one of them.
The second time I heard this song, I didn’t realize it was a cry for help. “Go while the going is good. Knowing when to leave may be the smartest thing that anyone can learn. Go.” I bopped my head side to side, enamored by how light the lyric was. Music for music’s sake. Matt and I were driving, taking a detour through the dry, neglected backcountry of San Diego. He was playing a show that I was performing in. We decided to carpool to the opening; my car had broken down earlier that day. I leaned my head up against the window and watched the blurring black. As long as we stayed in motion, the night would swallow everything but us. “Foolish as it seems, I still have my dreams.” I looked over at Matt and mistook his absence for dreaminess. I smiled and continued to enjoy the tune. I couldn’t get over how soft the trumpets were. Plush as velvet, inviting yet deliciously punctuated. Matt was humming their line, holding it in his throat a little longer than he should have, back-phrasing. I wish I had the presence of mind to realize what was happening. He hadn’t come out yet and neither had I, both of us trapped in closets. I thought of leaving as a dream, he thought it was a nightmare. “When someone walks in your life, you’d just better be sure he’s right. Coz’ if he’s wrong, there are heartaches and tears you must pay.” The car stopped at an intersection, and famished night began to swarm. I looked over at him and, for a moment, was afraid. His eyes were bright and weepy. They locked onto the fading horizon, quietly praying to slip beneath it. “Keep both of your eyes on the door. Never let it get out of sight. Just be prepared when the time has come for you to run away.” I reached out and put my hand on his. He clutched the stick shift to steady his trembling. He turned his head to look at me. I locked eyes with him and knew better than to believe the manufactured assurance behind his smile.
We arrived at the theater after soundcheck. I clambered out of the car and climbed up the stairs by the loading dock before my hand reached the stage door. “Did you lock your car?” I said, turning around. Matt wasn’t there. I turned toward the lot, saw him sitting in the car, and watched the street lamp above him go out. Night had swallowed him whole. My phone buzzed. “Hey, buddy. I’ll see you at intermission. Break a leg.” I put my phone back in my pocket and headed inside. As I opened the stage door, I heard the trumpet’s plush line burst from the cracked window of his car. “I’m afraid my heart isn’t very smart.” His sobs wrestled with the brass that shot across the lot, crashed into the loading dock, and bloomed in my ears. Help, I thought to myself, soundcheck is already over.
2018
Clumsy, the droplet missed a step and fell. It was distracted by the sight of Matt’s eyebrows. It gathered itself together and paused in the valley between Matt’s eyes. His brows were like trees blown, bowed, and softened by the wind. They prostrated themselves to watch over two churning hazel pools. These were his eyes, canopied by a beating brow. To journey forward, the drop would have to cross the narrow, chiseled bridge of Matt’s nose. This was the path of least resistance, a difficult act to balance. If taken hastily, the bead might roll right off the edge and meet the unyielding, polished floor. If taken slowly, it might halt at the edge and risk a rubbing off. The bead decided to spring. Full of conviction, it launched itself down and off of Matt’s nose but was caught on the curve of his nostril. Tumbling round the bend, the bead slid until meeting the right corner of his lips. Matt yawned, and the drop slid down the underside of his chin. It fell flat onto Matt’s collar bone, uncharted territory. It looked upward and couldn’t see its damp trail. Obscured by Matt’s features, the bead had been stranded on a clavicle plateau.
2019
Now, the word “departure” has quite a middling story. To understand it, we’re going to have to stand at the center of a bridge. This bridge is a lover’s bridge, etymological in nature. At its furthest end, you’ll notice a puzzling, unintelligible Father. His name is Old English. At the other, you’ll notice an up-to-date, categorical Mother. Her name is Modern. Look down, and you’ll find yourself upon a three-hundred-year period where Middle English abounds. It’s here, right on the apex, that we were loaned about three thousand new words. “Departure,” of course, is among them. If you haven’t written a thank you card for the French, you should. They are responsible for the undergirding of our wooden little waymaker. From 1150 CE to 1450 CE, the French occupied the British Isles and took over the beloved Church. Their sophisticated presence, and ennui, was felt in the guise of prefixes and suffixes. These new beginnings (and endings) offered more than just variation; they offered time travel.
Let’s play the role of the time-traveling matchmaker. Invite the word “depart” and the suffix “-ure” onto the lover’s bridge. Leave a meal behind. After a bit of nibbling, the lovebirds will consummate on the spot, creating a brand new word. This is how “departure” came into being. Trysts like this happened often back then. Horny words would cross the bridge, meet their partners, and become whatever they wanted⸺possessive nouns, descriptive adverbs, adjectives in love. Believe it or not, orgasm wasn’t always the goal. Take these two, for instance. Bored beyond belief, the English suffix “-ing” stole away to the bridge to rub one out alone. Little did he know, “depart” was there too, standing on the bridge and struggling to start. Together, they aimed to relieve themselves mutually and ended up “departing.” I doubt they finished, but they did discover edging. These queer rendezvous were not without their dangers. “Depart,” fresh from a one-night stand, tried his hand at love again. He mingled with “-ed,” a bloke from an Old English family. They’d make their way to the bridge, fuck, and get stuck. Trapped in the past, their only saving grace would be a ménage a trois. “Have,” a supportive third, flew across the bridge and pushed “departed” back to safety. They fell at Modern Mother’s feet and held each other tightly. “Have departed,” in my opinion, is our most striking linguistic construction, the present perfect. It starts in the past, crosses the bridge, and brings us into the present. “I have departed” signals a leaving that began in the past and continues to happen here in the present.
2020
On August 7th, 2013, I tried to board a plane in hopes that it would take me back to the United States. I did not make that flight. I had been traveling on a discounted ticket reserved for airline employees and their families. It’s known as Zed Fair and will take you anywhere in the world as long as there’s an available seat. Luck would have it that there wouldn’t be an empty seat for the next twenty-one days. I lived out of my carry-on in the meantime and made the El Prat airport my home away from home. In retrospect, I was torn: happy to be an ex-pat, mad I was living in baggage claim. It was lonely until it wasn’t. I made friends with a nurse from San Francisco in a similar predicament. The boarding agent knew us by name and brought us pity snacks until the day we left. Twenty-one days later, on August 28th, a wide smile spread across her face. Two seats were empty and waiting for our asses. The boarding agent told us a lovestruck couple decided to stay in Barcelona a little longer. Thank God. I couldn’t help but walk down the aisle of the plane in abject disbelief. The overhead light illuminated my empty chair. I sat down quickly, terrified I’d be dragged off the plane. The stewardess walked toward me and asked if I needed anything. I kindly asked for headphones. She left and returned with a black pair. I plugged the cable into my iPod and placed the buds in my ears. I carelessly turned the rubber dial until I came across the album Promises, Promises. I downloaded it a year ago and never gave it my attention. I skipped through the tracklist initially, unamused before landing upon “Knowing When To Leave.” The pilot made an announcement instructing everyone on board to fasten their seatbelts. As I clicked my belt into place, the plane began to roll down the tarmac.
2021
Matt coughed, and the tired drop rushed across his chest. It glided past his breasts, whizzing closer to the center of his body. Matt stood there, admiring the damper parts of himself. Left unseen, the pearl slipped safely down his raised abdomen, leaving a path down his stomach. Then, it happened. Unaware of the end, the bead slipped head-on into the basin of Matt’s groin. It crashed onto jagged, uneven hairs before bursting open and spilling its dew. “Can you hand me a towel?” I sprung from my silence and obeyed immediately. “Yes.” I reached into my bag, trying to keep my eye on the door. I fumbled through my bag blindly hoping he’d open the door and reveal himself. He did not. I found the towel and stood. A white hand reached through the cracked opening of the door. I responded by strangling the towel before handing it to him. “Thanks.” Imagine a grown man envious of cotton. I let out an irritated sigh. “You okay?” He asked. I ignored him for a moment. Seeing through the slats was a formidable task. “Hello?” He asked. I rubbed my defeatist eyes. “I’m fine,” I responded. The door did more than just divide us. It took his body and split it into slivers. All my eyes could muster was a naked marble statue, torn to tattered, tattered shreds.
2022
The first time I heard “Knowing When to Leave,” I didn’t realize it was a warning. “Fly while you still have your wings. Knowing when to leave will never let you reach the point of no return. Fly.” The plane sped down the runway, and I panicked. I could feel what was about to happen, feel the conflict ensue. The nose of the aircraft wielded strife like a blade and dug into the air. It split the wind in tw,o causing it to flood above and beneath the plane. I felt crushed. “Foolish as it seems, I still have my dreams.” The chorus’s pulse dug into my ears. The trumpet’s line shook me hard and turned my skin dark red. I was restless and couldn’t help but think of the life I was leaving behind. Out, apart, abroad: Here, I was invincible, shatterproof. I boarded that plane knowing good and goddamn well I didn’t want to go. America would render me powerless yet again. “Sail when the wind starts to blow. But, like a fool, I don’t know when to leave.” The plane sprinted down the airfield, changing the temperature of the parted air. The climbing speed made the pressure above the plane recede. The top-heavy air grew cold. This same rush quickened the air, pooling the hot pressure below into a flood. I held my breath and gripped the armrests. The plane attacked gravity at an angle, surprised it with an uppercut, and won. The mechanical bird took off without saying goodbye to the ground. Defeated, I buried my face in my hands. “But like a fool, I don’t know when to leave, when to leave.” The song repeated itself for the duration of the flight. I lifted my head as soon as the wheels greeted the earth. My face was hot and dry from crying.
2023
The door to the changing room swung open with a thud. Matt stood there dried, dressed, and smiling. “Your turn.” He threw the damp towel at me. I caught it then dropped it on the floor. He laughed and picked it up for me. I swallowed my embarrassment. We traded places and I closed the door behind me. I looked at myself in the mirror and ignored the inadequacy reflecting back at me. I kept my back toward the slats, patted myself down, and changed into drier clothes. I turned back around, expecting to see him waiting. He wasn’t. I didn’t realize how much that would hurt until I stepped outside the changing room. The pool house was dark and empty. I didn’t even hear him leave. I kicked the door open and it slammed against the wall. My loneliness echoed through the pool house like a bang. I started to leave and remembered that I was still holding the sopping wet towel in my hand. I turned back around and threw it in the empty wicker basket. I saw myself in the mirror and wished I felt desirable to him. I looked down and noticed his puddle of water still spreading across the floor. I stood there, staring, wishing I had been every bead and pearl and drop that pressed itself soft against his body.
2024
Matt committed suicide. He was driving home and his parents were following behind him. He swerved into a tree on the side of the road, mangled his body, and totaled his car. Shortly after having been rushed to the hospital, I received an unintelligible phone call from a mutual friend of ours. “Matt . . . where he is . . . they won’t . . . hospital.” Without even thinking, I got in the car and drove from Los Angeles to San Diego. I believed, which is to say served, God at the time. So, I prayed, asking where he was and I received an answer clear as day: Palomar Hospital. I took a book inside and sat in the waiting room patiently. Two hours later, Matt’s family rushed past me. His sister Bethany spotted me and took me inside his hospital room. Matt had hastily come out to them a several hours ago. His parents took it poorly and rushed over from New Mexico to retrieve him. Standing over him, lying there in the hospital bed, John 14:12 recited itself to me gently: “Verily, Verily, I say unto you. He that believeth on me, the works that I do he shall do also; and greater works than these shall he do, because I go unto my Father.” Jesus fed the hungry, healed the sick, and raised the dead. Like Jesus, love, compassion, and an understanding of loss moved me to do the same. So, I walked over to Matt and laid my hands on him. “Rise,” I said under my breath, “rise.” His family, also believers, sobbed. Pentecostals believe that faith and consent are required to bring back the departed. You have to believe, and they have to want to come back. Matt didn’t move. His parents took him off of life support the following morning, and he died on October 27th.
2025
Somni 451, a fictional character from David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas, spoke poignantly about death. “I believe,” the clone said, “death is only a door. One closes, another opens. If I were to imagine heaven, I would imagine a door opening. And he would be waiting for me there.” After Matt’s passing, I stepped through a door and left Christianity behind. Stumbling through life, I was triggered by anything and everything that reminded me of him: cheap brandy, lotto tickets, horchata, nighttime talks, and crescendos. We were musicians, after all. “Crescendos,” he mused, nearly spilling a bit of his spiked rice milk, “open us up to the beauty of music’s consequences.” I was etching into a lottery ticket with my car key. “And diminuendos?” I asked, half-expecting my scratcher to release me from poverty. Matt was stumped. Promises, Promises played through the car radio, underscoring the evening. “Dimimnuendos,” I said while tearing up my ticket, “transition us safely from one consequence to the other. They make us sit with the gravity of the music we just heard.” Matt looked over, stared at the torn up lotto ticket in my lap, and laughed. I took a sip of my horchata and laughed right back.
This is beautiful. I’m sorry for your loss, and I hope Matt is at peace now ❤️