In memoriam Dennis O’Toole (1946–51)

When I was five I was involved in an accident that has affected me deeply for the last 75 years. My best friend was a boy named Dennis O'Toole, who lived in the building next to mine on Daly Avenue in the Bronx. One summer day in 1951 the two of us filled up our water guns in my family's apartment & headed out to play. I remember that my mother was ironing & cautioned us to be careful as we ran out of the house.

But we weren't careful. I was about a foot in front of Dennis as we tore across the street, shooting our guns in the air & laughing. Then, suddenly, I sensed something had changed. When I turned around, I saw that Dennis had been knocked back to the other side of the street, where he was propped up against the tire of a parked car. It was a ghastly scene, imprinted in horrifying detail in my mind ever since. To my left was the black truck that killed him. Clearly, I had very narrowly escaped my friend's fate. 

My memory of all this has always played in my mind without any sound, a silent movie. I think I was in shock. There have been very few days since that day when I haven't re-lived that experience. Part of me has always felt that my assignment was to live life for both of us.

Dennis O'Toole, Bridie [Flynn] Winch, Terence Winch, Aug. 1948, Rockaway Beach, NY 

______________________________________________________

Survivor

I imagine you are just now settling down

for the night, your bed as white as mayonnaise,

which some people apparently prefer to ketchup

or even mustard. I don’t know what you would

have liked, but I pretend that you are exactly like me,

that you have lived on inside my body, my psyche

and have done so since that day you died.

I see you as you start to drift off, up there

amid the clouds shaped like clusters of forbidden

fruit, dressed in your flour-white communion suit

and short pants, never to be seen again, never

to attend the Friday night dance at St. Helena’s,

never to get drunk with me on blackberry brandy

in the boys’ bathroom, your absence looming

over the history of the world as I’ve known it.

It couldn’t be prevented. The sudden rip

that took you on your trip to the beyond,

while I stayed right here, forever wondering

what hit you on the street that summer day

but failed to take me away as well. I am bereft

of you. I am all now that is left of you.

in That Ship Has Sailed (Pitt Poetry Series, 2023)

Terence Winch, James [Jesse] Winch, Dennis O'Toole, Rockaway Beach, August 1948 

This post originally ran on the Best American Poetry blog on October 29, 2021

©Terence Winch  
Permission required to use any of the contents of this post.