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This is my first livejournal entry.

It's also the anniversary of my friend's death. 

I thought I'd commemorate, by writing about him. He had an beautiful soul, and when I told him that, he said in an awed voice that it was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him. He also had the most amazing blue eyes I've ever seen, and when I look up into the clear sky I see him looking down at me. 

He lived in the assisted living facility where I worked as a nurse aide. He was ninety four, and had all his own teeth. He also walked completely upright, without hunching over like so many old people do, yet he did need a walker. He had no trace of the dementia or senility that often strikes old people, and remembered everything. Sometimes I would watch him pause and search through his brain for the right memory, and come up correctly every time. He had a wicked sense of humor, and a mind that adored word games and having fun. Frequently he would indulge in Spoonerisms, which is mixing up parts of a word for funny effect. For example, he would order the "nick and choodle soup" instead of the "chicken noodle soup."

He got sick, and then he got sicker. And a lot of other crap happened that I really don't want to remember right now. I just want to remember how his eyes would light up when I came into his room. How he opened up and told me stories of his amazing life. How he called me his favorite bootlegger, because I once told him a dirty joke and he replied that I must be hanging out in the wrong bars. How much of an intellectual snob he was, yet still an incredibly kind hearted man. The night I visited him in the hospital, when I had to wear a mask and gown just to enter his room, and he opened his eyes wide when he realized who I was and said, "Oh! You found me!"

I loved him with everything in me. He touched my soul. I wasn't even able to go to his funeral, or his viewing. Actually, his viewing I'm glad I didn't go to, because I could not bear to see him like that. Ordinary people I don't mind seeing dead like that, but when I love them, it's twice as awful. WHY do they say people in caskets look natural? They look like wax statues of themselves. 

Now I go to his grave and place a flower on it and talk to him, finally tell him all my funny stories. I miss listening to his voice. I miss the way he smelled, which was absolutely heavenly and which I cannot reproduce, ever ever again in my life. And I kiss his name on the marker, and look up at the blue sky, and feel him watching over me. 

 

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soleilpirate

April 2011

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