Chief Writing Wolf

Robert in 1997

My father planted pink spider lilies decades ago in our front yard, but at some point years later, he decided to dig them up.  Shortly before his oldest sister, Amparo, died in February 1998, he was surprised to see several of those plants had re-surfaced.  Over the next several years we both noticed that a number of those pink spider lilies would inexplicably pop up in various spots across the front yard.  And then someone we knew – a relative, a friend, a neighbor – would die soon afterwards.  That was an omen, he told me – someone we knew was going to die.  Those lilies sprung up across the front yard shortly before my father’s death in June of 2016 and again before my mother’s death four years later.  They even arose before my dog Wolfgang died in October of 2016.  They came up again in early 2022 just weeks before my friend, Paul, died and again the following year, just before another friend, David, died unexpectedly.

A few weeks ago I spotted a few of those blooms near the front door.  And now, for the third time in as many years, I’ve lost a close friend.  Robert Souza died early Wednesday morning, the 16^th.  He turned 62 last month.  A Massachusetts native, he’d moved to Texas in 1983 to attend some kind of religious school.  That didn’t seem to work out, but he always retained some degree of spiritual faith.  Oddly, despite living in Texas for so long, he still had that uniquely Bostonian accent.  We met through mutual friends in February 1994 and found we had a few things in common: muscle cars, rock music and animals.

Robert had been through a lot personally, including some serious health problems, and even an attempted carjacking/robbery in 1997 where he took six bullets.  I wrote about that in 2013.  Despite everything, he always managed to get through it.  This latest bout with severe pneumonia, however, proved insurmountable.

I’m afraid Robert’s death will mark the end for his mother – a retired nurse in her 80s who still lives in Massachusetts.  She lost her young son, George, to ALS five years ago.  Robert returned to Massachusetts for the funeral and stayed longer with his mother.  Knowing all about his health concerns, she just wanted him to be with her for a little while.  Now this.

After my friend David died in 2023, Robert and I discussed how we had reached the point in our lives where we lose people we know and love.  I often joked that he was too mean to die; that he needed to soften up a little before God accepts him into the Kingdom.  I guess he softened up without me realizing it!

My friend Paul who died of liver cancer in 2022 had told me years earlier of strange things surrounding him and his family.  He lost his father, two nephews and his older brother over a six-year period.  And in the weeks preceding each death he noticed a slew of black birds nearby.  One even flew alongside him as he drove down a highway.  Alarmed, he told me, he’d honked several times, but the bird continued flying beside his car.  Even when he slowed or sped up, the bird remained a constant presence.  Only when he exited did it fly away.  The experience left him shaken, he recounted.  Shortly afterwards his brother died.

A few days before my mother passed away I had a close family friend stay with her, while I went to the store.  When I exited the building and approached my truck I was startled to see a small group of black birds gathered atop my truck.  They remained, even when I got into the vehicle – literally close enough for me to touch them – and departed only when I started the engine.  Earlier this week I went to the same store and – as I approached the entrance – noticed a single black bird on the ground ahead of me, just outside the automatic doors.  It turned in my direction, and I slowed my pace.  A few steps closer and the bird flew away.

Now I can only say I love you, my friend Robert, and I hope to see you on the other side.