Time to go home

You would want this done right, I know that much.  You made your wishes clear.

You always said these moments are best kept simple. Not the time for fancy words; no alliteration permitted. So, I won’t say that you loved wisdom, wine, and words. I won’t say you were sustained by friends, fine food and fiction.  Occasions like these do not demand a prize-winning speech.  Cute mnemonics as an aide-memoire are unnecessary - there is no test at the conclusion.  Instead let me show not tell, as you taught your students to do.  What did you love? You loved warm tamarilloes with icecream. You loved Duruffle’s Requiem. You loved socks hung in pairs, expensive linen and the illuminating instant of a new idea.  You loved the breathless hush just before the curtain went up, the morning sun on your back as you read the newspaper. Very hot coffee, new slippers. Quiet dignity could move you to tears.

You would want me to speak the truth.  You were imperfect. You forgot birthdays, appointments, names.  You made up your mind about people quickly and it was a long road to redemption for many.  You preferred a book to a crowd and were usually the first to leave a party. How many times did I look for you in vain in the shadows of smoky flats or jostling theatre foyers, sad that you were missing the fun?  You never felt that way. Your particular form of vanity was a yearning to be recognised for your writing. You dreamed of being braver than you were. You hated the phrase ‘courageous battle’, not just because it is the worst kind of cliché but because you weren’t a fighter. You denied, you bargained, you observed your diagnosis for writing inspiration. In the end you said you were ready to go home.

And you would want me to say it straight. No preaching or proselytising. Everyone’s understanding of this mysterious thing called life is different.  True to form, you are simply the first one to leave the party.  So many times over the passage of our friendship, I wish you had stayed a little longer. This is the last.

Rosemary McBryde