Tree Prose

At noon today I found myself outside John's house. Twenty years ago, with my son in my arms, I found myself in John's home for the first time, and August 28th, 2009, I found myself in John's home for the last time. What changes in a year, what stays the same? Geraniums still flower in the outdoor planters, and the front door is the same ruby red. But now in the branches of the front yard tree two plastic swings hang. As I sat parked across the street, two red headed young boys ran out the front door and across the street to play. Their mother followed onto the front yard, watching them. Feeling I was being offered a gift, I went to meet her, and she generously allowed me into the house.

What changes in a year, what stays the same? My hand on the familiar front door knob, I pushed that ruby red door open, wanting so badly to see Patrick's painted carrot over the entry to the kitchen, the Buddha candle in the center of the mantel, and the latest Film Comment on the coffee table John had made. I walked quickly through the house, my soul jarred by the changes, and simultaneously calmed by the constancies. Things change. Painted carrots move houses, Buddha candles disappear, subscriptions to Film Comment do not get renewed. But something intangible lingers.

Since last summer I have carried a picture of John in my mind. He is in the yoga studio standing in tree pose. One foot is rooted into the ground, the sole of his other foot pressed firmly into his thigh. His torso is long, and his arms are extended upward. His gaze is soft, unwavering, and fixed on the point directly in front of him. No past, no future. He balances on one leg, in the present moment, occupying the space we all live in -- the space between living and dying.

What changes in a year, what stays the same? The picture in my mind of John is still of him in tree pose in the studio. In this picture he is robust, full of life, with a full head of hair. I think John would like that. I think he'd be happy also to know that the people who occupy his home know his name, his story, and have met his son. They love and appreciate the house he created.

John Kelly was a gifted filmmaker. He was creative, smart, kind and funny. He was an amazing father. Although he is gone, his memory will live on forever in those of us who loved him.