I just found out that an old friend died in January. Godspeed, John Pyle.
He was the ex husband of a close friend, a tall skinny dark haired welshman, soft spoken, smart, funny. Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, he used to come over now and then, when I was in an unhappy marriage and he was too. Our children played and we had a glass of wine. His politics and mine clashed harshly, but he laughed and listened.
He was on my lifetime want to fuck list.
I never did anything about it. I fed him, now and then; I listened. He'd come and gone from a harsher world than any I have ever known, and the demons he struggled with were fiercer than mine. They took a long and horrible toll; the last time I saw him, 2 summers ago, he had already begun a long fall.
I always meant to take him up to bed. And I wish that I had.
I hope, John, wherever you are, which should be full of green grass, dark water, mulberry trees and not 1000 virgins, which I can't imagine you, who became quiet and shy in the presence of women, liking at all, know that. I hope you rest easy, and quiet, and have some peace that this world denied you.
I'm sorry I didn't know until now that you had left us. And I'm more sorry than I can say that on one of those gloaming afternoons as the toddlers played that I didn't just take your hand and lead you upstairs. Speed well, old friend, come back to us soon.