Read Simone Felice's "Requiem for Levon"

First thing I do is turn my head
to the window and find the
cold blue sea
beyond, the waves like a
living, dancing quilt rolling out
to meet the sky.

Could it have been little more
than a month back that I sat
on a wooden
bench not five feet from his
drum-riser as he played and
sang Ophelia with the grace of
a veteran dancer, the spirit of
a country preacher, at once
lithe, weather-worn, fiery,
weary, imperishable.

It is true there was a gleam in
his eye. Like a school-boy
skipping classes
all afternoon to while away the
hours with friends down by the
river’s edge,
elemental wonders, overjoyed
just to live within earshot of
the sound of music.

I am lucky enough to have had
the extraordinary privilege to
share the stage with Levon on
occasion, one of the great
honors of my life, just to have
been one of those children
dodging the truant officer, our
toes in the rushing water, the
widest smiles. 

Levon Helm is more than a
drummer. More than a singer.
He is a natural
force, akin to weather and
sunlight, not very different
from the quiet wood in
which he made his home, the
wind that whips the trees. You
could walk from
Arkansas to Alberta, Winnipeg
to Woodstock and you’d be
hard-pressed to find
a more soulful, gracious man.

I can’t assume to know where
our heroes go when they die.
Nirvana. Heaven.
The tremendous band in the
sky, assembled in the round,
together there on a
sun-kissed, better shore.
Whatever it’s called, wherever
it is, you can bet
the farm that today the bells
are ringing there, and the
people are singing.
Because Levon knows what
we can only guess: That there
is no last waltz.
That we’ll forever file in
through the barn door with the
ones we love,
drawn by the firelight, grab our
children and go round and
round in a dance
interminable. We doe-see-doe.
We stomp the boards. Shout.
Kiss. Cry. Sing.
Spin. Laugh. Squeal. Study
the stars through the gaps in
the ceiling.