"Richard’s funeral had a life of its own. May, 1966, three years ago... Carmel Valley . . . Richard’s parents, his mother sitting on a foam rubber donut because she was having trouble with her back. Someone had to carry the donut around behind her, she had to put it on the chair beside the coffin before she could sit down—Richie would have laughed—to weep over her boy’s body. The rain, the clouds hanging over the beach where Mimi and her older sister Pauline and | went in our black veiled dresses to run the dog on the beach, the big honey-colored animal who couldn’t understand why the girls took him to run in the morning fog and cloud, ona strange beach far from the Big Sur highlands. Cutting bangs on Pauline’s long hair the night before the funeral, sleeping-no-sleep in a big bunch, finding no sleep, no reason for the premonitions that Mimi had had and others. Dreams, messages, thoughts, messages. Why did he give me his keys, she said, when he left drunken, happy, late-night-reveler at his own party, the party for the release of his book. Why did he give her his keys when she doesn’t drive, never has driven. Why in the rain, on a motorcycle, why so fast, with a stranger, with the fulfilled promise lying like a bunch of flowers in his hands, printed and posted and parcelled—one of the best books | ever read, before his death, thank God. No music for two days, could not bear, could not have borne to hear one slipping-slinging, yankingyour-pain-from-you note. Before his book was finished, about near the last chapter, his hand became paralyzed, couldn’t move, it couldn’t write a word, not until he realized he didn’t want to, didn’t want to finish it because maybe he couldn’t accept Dick Farifia succeeding, being whole, being on his own two feet having succeeded at something only he could have done in the"
The Judy Collins Song Book: by Herbert Haufrecth, p.185
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