Martin, a badass Navy Seal, spoke like a pirate guarding his treasure and rum.

Martin, a fortified encasement that housed a warm and delicate heart. A heart so finely tuned that butterflies waited in line to feel its pulse as they lit on his fingertips.

Martin the complex man who grinned a sheepish grin when he said, they called me NitroFish. Do ya know what that means?

And then there was me, a civilian artist trying to accomplish the almost impossible task of squeezing the life blood out of my civilian mindset so I could truly see him.

I had to learn to listen. But that was not enough. I had to listen so deeply that it shook me to the bone, gnarled my gut, and made me wonder why am I doing this?

But, as I listened something amazing happened.
I began to hear his well honed wisdom:

It’s the silence that’s killing us. It killed us as we came home and its killing us today.

Don’t even try to take away my wounds. I need them, I earned them, I depend on them to live.

I raised my arm to kill that spider. Then thought, nah, I’ve seen enough killing. That’s not for me today.

Nothing is safe no matter where ya are. But high ground…that’d be pretty damn safe with me up there.

My prayer is watching waters of the lake sparkle in the sunlight.
My prayer is bathing in the wide open silence of nature

When I say Do Not Resuscitate. I mean it.

If something has hold of you. Don’t call it an illness. Don’t let it define you.
Work with it. Walk. Walk all day if ya have to. Walk until it hurts. Then walk it some more.

When my heart acts up I give it something to think about, like smashing my chest at a full on run into a post. That’s gets it going again.

And then comes his disarming grin

You still gotta watch out for the rattlers an the tattlers. That’s what my 9mm is for.

My War Wagon isn’t a truck. It’s a reason to live. It’s a monument to my son.

Upon hearing about his son, I pulled out a freshly cut steel feather we were preparing for the model of the Phoenix. His eyes welled with tears.

I offered this. How about shaping this feather. Give it some heat, pound it out to give it a pleasing twist and curl?

And he says, No, No, leave it raw.
Leave it raw with sharp edges. Raw with a drop of blood coming from its tip. My son was raw. Yeah, he had sharp edges.

Only weeks later, he slumped on a chair looking out as the retreating sun carved deep shadows into the jutting spears of Rocky Mountain Flatirons.

Its too late he says. Its too late.

I stood behind him and took the risk of placing my hands on his shoulders. His armored body softened to the touch.

Thanks, he said, I’m ready to do the ablation tomorrow.

He pointed to one of his ink drawings hanging on my wall.
Remember, that butterfly, the yellow butterfly, that’s me.

We lost him the next morning.

But later that day, there he was, a beautiful yellow butterfly sunning itself atop the Dragon’s head.

We Became Brothers

We stood shoulder to shoulder
Leaning into a sweet blaze
Winding yellows, blues and purples into dance

He oiling the action of his 9MM
I scraping the metallic grit
From the rotor of my grinder

We were fixing our gear

A word or two dropped
Here and There
Like Bright Sparks lighting our hearts

We joined in a flame
Only brothers know
What more
Need be
Said

~Robert Bellows, 10/30/19