A Note from Monica Matouk

Monica was Owen’s English teacher at SAS

April 9 2020

Dear Ed, Laurel, and Leda,

John and I have been thinking of all of you since Owen’s wonderful memorial service.  I thought I’d forward you this note below, and poem (attached) that he sent me via Facebook almost 7 years ago.  I stumbled upon it a few days ago (it might have been his birthday, actually?).  I loved rereading it and thought you would too--it’s pretty amazing.  (And I still remember that argument he and I had in the hall—vividly!  He was so much fun to teach.)

Monica

Hi Mrs. Matouk! 

It's been a while. I think a couple years ago I sent you a poem I wrote. Well, for the past couple years I've been working on it. Or running it through my head constantly at least, and writing sometimes. I remember my junior year we had an argument in the hall about how much every word matters in a poem. I, being the naive schoolboy that I was, posited that words didn't really matter so much at an individual level, that only the collage of words as a whole held any kind of weight.

Well, needless to say, 8 years later I must admit you were right. I have spent countless hours of space-out time rummaging through synonyms and substitutions and deletions and replacements, and I finally have something I like enough to abandon for a while.  Anyway, please find attached. It's called "Sand". I hope you like it.

Sand

Sometimes the world is made of sand,

moving and sifting within itself,

weaving and reweaving like the rightful makings of a day,

fervently rising and swirling with the wind into form, 

into all perfect things,

a million fluttering fragments of a question. 

Sometimes the world is made of sand,

and when it changes back there is a moment, 

thin like the sheet of water that blurs the ocean to the things above it

when I can feel the parting brush of a few lingering grains before they are swept away, 

because they cannot remain forever,

should we be men forever.

When is the world sand? I don’t know. 

I search for better words than “sometimes” but I must resign without success.

When the world is sand time is present but inconsistent in meeting its obligations,

an old lazy dog that doesn’t bother barking 

every time it hears someone knocking at the door.

I don’t mind the steel and stone and other grand makeshift structures. 

They are soothing in their wholeness.

But I hope that one day some of them might permanently break 

into their tiny counterparts,

so perfect things are not all lost

when it is not sometimes.