A Good-bye in Progress

I’m about to tell you about a man that I love the way I wanted to love my father. He is a man I’ve never seen nor even heard his voice.

A few years back when I was posting essays on another website, I received an email regarding something I had written. The email was a bit critical of my writing style. My first inclination was to hit the delete button and say to hell with you. But instead I reread the message and felt the writer was giving me good constructive criticism. Instead of delete, I hit reply and thanked the sender for his message. That’s how it began.

This gentleman was 80 years old and lived alone in a town about as far from my own as you can get and stay within the continental United States. His wife had died some years ago and he lived alone. He was a wealth of knowledge and the very symbol of a gentleman.

We emailed one another daily and occasionally hourly. One time we were sending emails back and forth as fast as we could. That was two years ago during the running of the Kentucky Derby. That was so much fun. We had such a good time that day. His favorite horse won and he was all excited.

During the years that followed my wise decision not to hit the delete button, I learned so much from my friend. He referenced books and poems for me to read. Then we would discuss our opinions. He showed me how to read Mark Twain to get the most from his words. We shared our opinions about everything from politics to literature to world events.

Then there was the music. The first Christmas that I was acquainted with him, he burned several CD’s of his favorite music and mailed them to me. They ranged from old jazz to big band and beyond. He made me a guide for each cut. He listed each band, each singer and what to listen for in each song. Oh my, those are my treasures and the only tangible reminder of our friendship.

When I had to leave my house before hurricane Jeanne arrived, I emailed him before I left to let him know I would be away from my computer for at least a few days. He quickly wrote back that he would miss me and that his life wouldn’t be right until I returned. We had that kind of relationship.

Here was a person who was far away, smarter than anyone I have ever met, and he was concerned about me and my well being. My dad never said anything like that to me, and he was supposed to care.

About a year ago my friend’s body became frail and he became ill. He has been in all sorts of hospitals since that time. Last week his daughter, whom I have talked with on the phone since the illness began, emailed me to tell me that my friend is dying. No one knows how long he has left on this earth. He told his daughter and his doctor that he is tired. He’s ready to go.

Our relationship was like a journey to me, a journey that led down a wonderful path surrounded by amazing thoughts and sights and sounds. It was as if he was holding my hand and showing me things I might never have seen. He cared for me. Oh and I cared for him. He was a distant shoulder for me to cry on, and I shared my small shoulders with him. He knew how to make me laugh when laughing seemed impossible. He could rant with the best of them too. He was the essence of a renaissance man.

He encouraged me to continue to write. He gave me confidence to keep plugging away and trying. He said he had faith in me. He pushed me when I needed pushing and he reined me in when I veered too far.

I have missed hearing from him since he became ill. I kept hoping each day that I would receive a surprise email from him and our friendship could continue. Now I have to come to grips with the fact that that’s not going to happen, ever again. I have cried but that did no good. Crying doesn’t make hurting go away. This wonderful person is silently leaving my life one day at a time.

He is leaving me but I will never lose the knowledge he shared with me. I will never lose the memories of his friendship. Although he is going away, I know the effect that he has had on me and my life will be with me for the rest of my life. For that I am deeply and sincerely grateful.

In honor of and in memory of our friendship, I decided to post a poem that he told me about a long time ago. It seems most appropriate.

Meeting and Passing by Robert Frost

As I went down the hill along the wall
There was a gate I had leaned at for the view
And had just turned from when I first saw you
As you came up the hill. We met. But all
We did that day was mingle great and small
Footprints in summer dust as if we drew
The figure of our being less that two
But more than one as yet. Your parasol

Pointed the decimal off with one deep thrust.
And all the time we talked you seemed to see
Something down there to smile at in the dust.
(Oh, it was without prejudice to me!)
Afterward I went past what you had passed
Before we met and you what I had passed.