A memoir for John.

He came and went, a delicate transaction with the light and the days. His moment of passing was quiet. No big flashes, no crashing sounds, just a small pocket of time where the birds kept singing and the seasons kept changing. No difference other then the slow and calculated release of his spirit. My dear friend quietly slipped through the silence to the other side, and that was that.

I can remember the first time that I ever saw him. He was cleaning our house and smiling a huge smile when I came into the room. He said hello as if he knew exactly who I was and everything about me. I bet that he did. I was eleven years old and walking through a battlefield and he saw this. John offered me a hug, and I accepted. This grandfather of a man showed up one day a housekeeper with wisdom to share. Within a few months he was living with us. John offered literature and positive thinking as a way to change a life. As I grew, John became a friend and a mentor; he changed my life.

There was a point in time when I saw more of him than I saw of my own father. There were cracks in the foundation of my relationship with my dad and I questioned whether or not they were reparable. Instead of focusing on this question, John helped me to focus on the bigger picture. I began to question the universe instead. I read existential literature and saw shifting shapes when we spoke. His face shifting forms, the air tingling; the adventure was beginning, the growth was happening. Life was altering its course, but staying on schedule. I was growing up, and in the company of love and wisdom.

We went out to coffee, out to movies, roamed around the mall aimlessly, talked about my mother, joked about my father, he told me stories of his youth and how he came to own all of his tattoos. John told me how he had gotten the tattoos on his knuckles, and how he had then removed them in his 50’s. We went to movies that opened the mind, he gave me books to the same effect; slowly giving me a greater responsibility in my life, showing me the beauty that surrounded me despite my sadness.

John had stories upon stories about all the places he had lived, about his childhood in Florida and his fascination with alligators. He told me about his strange experiences with women, about the disappearance of his daughter and how he had to rescue her. He told me about when he lived in Mexico in a milk truck that he drove around, and all the people he befriended there over his years as a nomadic milkman. We would go out to proper English tea at the Queen Mary, and he would see a familiar face outside; next thing I knew I was listening to him reminisce in Spanish about his time down south. He wanted to finish rebuilding his trailer and head back down to South America to revisit all those friends of old. I loved his dreams. I started to dream more of my own.

The funeral was something out of a dream; white fields in December, bright sun, blue sky, long roads, black coats, rifles, tears, and goodbyes. I was teaming with humorous confusion, giggling with delight at the knowledge of his presence. We stood at the finish line a bunch of strangers with a similar story to tell and an absent champion. The day sneaking past us with spiraling breadth on cold, winter air. I’ll never forget how it looked; the sky was open, full of change and sun, the snow was young and innocent.

John guided me through transitions. I went from an awkward eleven year old, to an angst filled teen, to a college bound young adult. All the while we greeted each other with the deepest of loves and the greatest of care. John taught me the importance of chocolate in combination with good health. He used to leave dove chocolates on my windshield along with silly cards that weren’t signed. That was his trademark, anonymous cards with beautiful pictures. We went to fairs together and talked about how fun it would be to have a mistress. He encouraged love in all its forms, and reminded me that each and everyday that I managed to smile and see the light was an accomplishment like none other. He was proud of me. Eventually, I was proud of me too.

The busier that I became, and the farther from home that I went, the less I saw of him. Each time I came back and saw him it was clear that he was aging. Still a striking older man, but slowing down a bit. He made silly mistakes about where to park his car and stopped being able to hear the turn signal; it got left on for an obnoxious amount of time, but I never had the heart to tell him this. It was strange to watch a seeming super hero begin to fade. His light never dimmed, but his vitality faded. I started to realize that he wouldn’t always be around the way that he was then.

When John left, died, went away, I woke up a little more. Standing at his memorial service in the cold, I was acutely aware of my newfound alertness. How strange to be left behind by a loved one. There is still so much that I don’t understand.

Eventually our visits were brief. They were profoundly filled with joy, but always in passing. I would think about him often and hope that he could hear my thoughts or feel my love. I think that he could. I know that despite his strength and wisdom that he became scared. The distance between him and his loved ones grew. We were all getting older; friends, children, lovers. He was aging the fastest.

One day, when the sun was shining and the possibility of the moment seemed endless, I was told that he had a tumor. It was terminal, and they weren’t going to operate. He would not survive and wanted the quality of life and not the quantity of days. Not long after that he was put in a home down near Federal Way. I visited him. The first time he recognized me and we cried together. He was scared but only showing strength. He was dressed to the nines, as usual. John always looked classy, even in his deathbed. The next time he forgot who I was for a little while. His recognition of me came in waves, when he couldn’t remember he seemed embarrassed and uncomfortable. I didn’t stay long.

They didn’t tell me when it first happened. I found out two days later. A few weeks after that I received an email with the information and location for his memorial service. I thought about his smiling face and all that he had done for me. I figured that he was listening so I told him how much he meant to me. I often talk to him still. The conversations are a bit one-sided these days, but still heart felt. He was a joyful man, with endless amounts of stories to tell about the significance of life and how it should be used. I intend to use part of my life to honor his. This shouldn’t be too hard; all I have to do is love.

I remember holding his image in my pocket. His smiling face and strong waving arm printed on a funeral program. Onward he went without fear, just love. I smiled back at him just like he had always done.