For Matthew Ernest Testolin, on the anniversary of his birth

First, I wish to extend a special thanks to my friend, Joel. I don’t believe that I took the time to thank him proper for his poem, and extending a hand during a time of great pain and confusion. The days we spend crossing paths with loved ones and strangers not ever knowing fully where on the road we stand or move can be at once daunting and awe inspiring. I guess when we do brush past one another all we need to do is be fully present, and give ourselves entirely to that moment. What else do we have? Anyway, thank you, friend. It was my honor to eulogize my nephew at his memorial service. Finding words to justly honor a life is a scary endeavor. You don’t want to fuck it up. The night before I had no idea what to say, how to form my feelings, not a clue. I began paging through some books, reaching. I picked up a book that was given to me years ago by a friend, “The Fisherman’s Guide To Life”, and opened to a passage that read: “If the fish don’t want to bite, let them not be caught.” So I went to bed. The next morning I woke and went for a walk. Over a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee I wrote the poem below for Matt, and read it later that morning at his memorial service. Matthew died on July 4, 2006 at 29 years of age, two weeks shy of his 30th birthday. He fathered four children and had a fiancé all of whom he enjoyed camping and fishing with. He was a hunter, and was no stranger to the ways of the wild. He had problems, show me one among us that doesn’t, but everything Matthew ever did was out of love or wanting to be loved. There will never be anything so beautiful as someone who wants to be loved. And Matthew was beautiful. The last time I saw Matt was at his sons’ soccer games, a couple weeks before he passed. I sat next to him for the match and we shared what was to be our last conversation in this life. We talked mostly about how he was doing. He said he thought he finally found a job that he was good at, and that he really enjoyed, as a plumber’s apprentice. I told him that it was probably in his blood; my mother’s dad was a plumber. We had a great day, and the last thing Matt said to me was “See you in Oscoda”. Matthew, less than seven years younger than me, was not just my nephew; he was my brother. Today, July 18, 2006, Matthew would have been 30 years old. So as I get ready to head north to Oscoda on Saturday, as is the rest of the Hawkinson / Testolin / Premier clan, we will carry with us his memory, of his laughter, his beautiful heart and his courageous passage through this world of form. Eternal rest be granted unto you, my brother, and may perpetual light shine upon you.

Love, Your Brother, John


Oscoda Sky
(For Matthew)

Walk down to the lake
And cast out your line
Morning cools and breaks into a blue
Through the outstretched arms of the White Pine
As you pitch your tent on the shore
Throwing the Petoskey Stone and making it skip
With sand-coated knees, the dunes behind us
Wade out into the soft currents
For laughter colors the Oscoda sky
Eternal canopy of light, falls onto
Gracing the skin, glow
Like your children
Dancing on your shoulders
You are with the one’s you love now
Brother
Now
And forever