Evan Hulick

 

“Lurking, Evan?” A common question.
I liked to stand outside the office
And wait to hear Stoney finish typing,
Not wishing to disturb him until he
Was ready for me. The 7th floor
Often rang with the sound of
His wheelchair across the floor.
He asked me that question
For the last time in
Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer
Where the bells rang of the
Three Mary’s and the white
Camarguese stallions rested
Beside the black bulls while
The great blue herons
Lurked in the upper marsh.

I looked over your shoulder
As you pointed down the Seine
Before we crossed in front of
Notre Dame in those last bright
Days before the fire, there in
Sunlit Latin Quarter after
All the French Legions
Played La Marseillaise
As you sat and conducted
With them, sweet ecstasy
On the stage of the Sorbonne.

I had seen that same look in South Jersey
At the Malaga Camp meeting
Where choirs sang around the tabernacle,
The place you once called home
Long before Billy Graham put his hand
On your eleven-year-old shoulder (was it ten?)
And said, “Remember, son, that God has called you.”
It was that certain twinkle in the eye,
As when I stood outside HUM-108
And waited to hold the door as you
Rolled in, always and never late for class,

Rolling as your guitar-sung hymns,
As when you sang Emily Dickinson’s
“Because I could not stop for death”
To the ballad meter of “Amazing Grace”
And then “The Yellow Rose of Texas”
And “Heartbreak Hotel.” How your words sang
In scintillating rhythm, lectures pouring
Tales of overcoming, of grace under pressure,
Of Santiago’s long voyage from Kentucky to
Torcello and from Atlanta to Philly and Oak Park.

I stood by your graveside
As they lowered you down in the soil,
And my mind dissociated, and there I was
In the hallway again, holding the door.
And then, for two years, I stayed in my
Mind’s eyes. I had to learn again the lessons,
And patient as ever, you waited,
And then I walked away from the grave
With the sun shining and felt the warmth
Of elder teachings.

Within a month, I sang
“Because I could not stop for death”
To the ballad meter of “Amazing Grace,”
Far away, to my own class at CUA.
Yet, there before my students,
Lesson after lesson with Santiago
Out into the gulf stream . . .
It dawned on me
That you were there, still lurking.
No matter what would happen,
So long as I opened my mouth
And gave to others
What you gave me,

The lesson is not over.
The class is not dismissed.
It endures with sunrise.