It cant have been a year but it has, a few days away but I might not want to write on the 20th. He was my friend, my benefactor, understood me better than anyone else. When Lorrie and I occasionally get together for lunch he invariably comes up: the way he called her, darlin: the way he would oppose one of my dark moods by saying it was caused by my, Celtic doom. We talk about his walk, lumbering from side to side, hands in pockets, I could spot him from 2 blocks away. Id often sketch or write on the patio of the coffee shop and had trained people not to bother me. If I saw John coming around the corner in his red lumberjack shirt, shirt tails out, his jeans and sneakers Id close the notebook or sketchpad. He would not be denied. A conversation would ensue which would become a gathering with him at its center. It could go on for hours. My last fond memory of him was he and I sitting on his little patio and looking out into the trees. He mentioned again what great things hed do if he won the lottery. We sat out there for a couple hours easy. The captain was involved. Wed look at each other occasionally and start laughing. I dont exactly know what Ill do on the 20th. Maybe nothing but spend awhile thinking of him, wishing I was sitting in one of those chairs next to him----no matter what the weather----and talking and hearing his stories again.
Posted on: Mon, 17 Mar 2014 14:17:05 +0000
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