The Passing

He was a rocky man, although not tall. He’s manner befitted someone without a care in the world, but all the care to give.

I had met him a number of times, this rock. He stood only slightly above my height and his manner was always welcoming. The times in his presence were something to cherish, although most times, fleeting.

I had met him years ago, a small gathering washing over his weird house in the north of the city. It’s courtyard, large and open. The inhabitants of the complex were all young, cheery folk who mingled with each other and enjoyed each other’s company, much like a good version of Melrose Place. Here, no one wanted to leave, and guests always wanted to stay.

Through the years I had brief encounters, brought together by his sister. There was something that always excited me by it. Mainly his passion and enthusiasm. From greeting, through conversation to goodbye. Same age, with a disposition I aimed for.

My last meeting was a grand affair, a cinema booked in his honour to show his work. For people to clap for him, and only him. And they did, with rapturous applause. He looked relatively well for a dying man. It was as though his disease riddled body had an awake moment, taking in those around him.

He passed the other day, taken into the next void. I reflected for a moment, all my troubles wafting away into the ether. You can’t counter death with any form of worldly remedy. 

You can only take life, and enjoy the ride, however you deem fit. As did he. With his courage, with his tenacity and his compassion.

Rest in whatever peace you find to keep you humble.



Justin Batchelor