Dear Jesse, as the moon lingers a moment over the bitterroots, before its descent into the invisible, my mind is filled with song. I find I am humming softly; not to the music, but something else; some place else; a place remembered; a field of grass where no one seemed to have been; except a deer; and the memory is strengthened by the feeling of you, dancing in my awkward arms.
Each one of here today will at one time in our lives look upon a loved one who is in need and ask the same question: We are willing help, but what, if anything, is needed? For it is true we can seldom help those closest to us. Either we don't know what part of ourselves to give or, more often than not, the part we have to give is not wanted. And so it those we live with and should know who elude us. But we can still love them - we can love completely without complete understanding.
Couldn't you find him?
The hell with him.
Well, I thought we were supposed to help him.
How the hell do you help that son of a bitch?
By taking him fishing.
He doesn't like fishing. He doesn't like Montana and he sure as hell doesn't like me.
Well, maybe what he likes is somebody trying to help him.
As time passed my father struggled for more to hold on to asking me again and again had I told him everything. And finally I said to him maybe all I know about Paul is that he was a fine fisherman. You know more than that, my father said, he was beautiful. And that was the last time we spoke of my brother's death.
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