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Nine years ago today you died in Berlin at the age of 58. The statistics say nothing: 34 years of the kind of relationship that seemed to transcend friendship, but those kind of relationships can never really be expressed in words, can they? Saying that I loved you seems weak, especially since we were both the kind of people who’d learned to put up a wall when we were kids with no one to depend on except ourselves.
Ours was the sort of friendship that seemed fully formed the minute we met. Kindred spirits, we each recognized a fellow traveler who shared the kind of damage we’d long ago become experts at hiding.
But we didn’t have to hide from each other, which was new to me.
Life can be cruel, and not particularly long. Shit happens, and in both our cases it was cancer. The difference was, I survived and you didn’t. No reason why, that’s just how life works. Trying to find a reason in random events is a fools game. We’re born, we get a few years on this planet, and then we die.
But sometimes, if you’re lucky, the universe aligns and gives you a gift. For me, that gift was you.
So shine on, my beautiful Irish brother—may you rest in peace. My life was unimaginably better with you in it.