Afterwords

Please, Believe in Me

My journey on Substack began last April. Unsure of the day the ribbon was cut, I decided to check yesterday. It was April 9, 2025. I smiled because my last offering was “Five Years,” a recollection of my remarks at my brother’s funeral.

I didn’t smile because my brother had died; I smiled because I didn’t plan to begin this process on the anniversary of his death. I was unaware of the date, which confirms our bond. He, from beyond, I believe, or want to believe, chose that date for me to begin.

I remember contemplating what literary offering I should begin with. I settled on poetry as April was National Poetry Month.

I’ve shared 44 Substacks since. That’s eight short of my goal, as I intended to publish at least once a week. Tonight, in honor of Poetry Month, I will share another. It’s what’s called a Persona Poem.

A persona poem is a type of poetry where the poet adopts the voice of a character or entity distinct from their own identity.

In this case, I have chosen to embody a well-known fictional character. Throughout this short missive, I offer clues to the character without being too obvious. Though I think it’s clear to the reader if they're open-minded.

Regardless of how easy or difficult it is to decipher the code, I will reveal the subject at the end and possibly add explanatory Cliff Notes. Ready?

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Half a century after our journey began, we sat in the chairs I built, in the log-by-log home I built. Each of us together bonding, one per side at the square table I built, inlaid with gemstones from the shoes dismantled: the cause of war.

What we shared was the same. But theirs were different from mine. Theirs would one day fail to ignite. Extinguished fires no longer able to see or follow any color whatever, ever. While I would step forever without them, the reason to have one to begin with.

No end beckons me nor my sorrow. Sometimes I rattle and think to take myself to the edge of the forest, unscrewing everything—an offer to any inclined to put a roof over their head.

Alas, I have not the courage, and I leak a little having written that word, missing my friend, gone first, in Summerlove—followed soon by a Gale force just days before the Luna conquest.

This day, I long alone—dull.

Shiny between my thumb and forefinger is a silver circle. It’s eye I thread with vine, and walk it to daylight, draping it on a branch of dogwood.

Near its trunk, I lay straw—a gift —for birds to fashion their resting places.

I hold back a hunk for me to line a basket. Nestled atop—a pair of bows in repose. One, the color of chicory, the other crimson, like the useless timepiece I received but did not marvel at, and no longer works, while I go on forever mourning my friends.

Aloud, I ache as memories echo across millennia.

Sometimes I catch a glint of gold from the path, mostly swallowed whole by papery flowers easily bent by the gentlest breeze.

I live every day reliving my favorite day when we were the wonder of the whirled, trimmed, clipped, brushed, and buffed.

A one hundred and sixty-four-year-old endling, I am.

The last one, my favorite, left me a decade after the universe heard the wave from America declaring three times the truth: I never got anything that I didn’t, didn’t already have.

What I have is broken.

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Did you identify the persona?

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Were there enough clues?

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Do you want to read it again before I reveal the puzzle?

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I’m just writing a bunch of words to make it so that when I show you the answer visually, it’s not a spoiler before you’re ready and want to test your instincts to see if you got it.

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I’m writing more nonsense to disguise the answer. I hope this is enough space before the reveal.

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It’s probably not, but who cares? It’s time for me to go to bed. Lots to do tomorrow. Thank you for your engagement.

Love, Eric

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Okay, I think I’ve created enough textual space between the poem and the persona. So here it is.

The Tin Woodsman

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