Southern Hospitality from Meera Subramanian on Vimeo.
I wrote this almost two years ago, and read it at Matt's Vermont memorial. I think I'm ready to post it.
The g-chats would come from Asia, South America, Africa. I would sigh and smile and type back in that too abrupt chat shorthand. "Yup" and then we'd bounce to some other topic, often dirt-or-word related. Matt Power could be both singularly obsessed and as scattered as the visas in his passport. Did he know that I cared as much about the plants' survival – the striated leaves of the spider plant in the bay window of the parlor and the abundance of the vegetable-berry-herb-opium poppy garden of the summer – as he did? If I wasn't on my own travels, I was babying the babies too, giving them water as they soaked up the south sun, all of us awaiting his next return to Hawthorne Street. I lived there with Matt and Jess for five years, from the first day when we sat on the bare floor in the bare limestone ("It's not a brownstone," Matt would correct.) eating takeout, as a cast of characters came and went, until I left too. Did he know I loved the plants? Did he know, we all asked last week, when news of his death in Uganda arrived, how much we loved him?