“The path your words take influence your life choices, past and future” – via Chris
Going through some recent receipts:
A book on Venice for Chris, because he wanted to learn more about Venice before he died. I never got to read him any of it in person.
A bunch of roses for Chris, but the hospital doesn’t allow flowers, so I gave it to the lonely and frustrated nurse from Seville who I never saw again. She’d just moved to London and wasn’t sure how to find her tribe or community. I told her as much as I could about East London, where she lived, the BGWMC, Meet Up, etc. I gave her my number and wondered if she would text. Chris got to look at the flowers for a few hours while she was on shift. I am glad.
On my way to see Chris, not knowing he had died that morning, I got chatting with the pharmacist at Boots as I was buying my meds. He was so taken by the fact that I write and act. He sold me a flu jab which was crafty but, to be honest, something I would have done anyway, had I remembered to be organised about it. He forgot that I had told him I was visiting a friend in hospital. He wished me a nice afternoon shopping. I reminded him why I was there, buying meds so far away from home. After leaving, I procrastinated and wandered into a shop. I didn’t want to go to the hospital. The light outside was fading.
There’s the tape recorder he listened to. I recorded William Maxwell’s short story, The Blue Finch of Arabia, for him to listen to. There is the dress I wore to his funeral. Over the years, I recorded The Blue Finch for three other men I loved in some way. How pale that all seems. Chris was right all along.