Break on through to the other side

Whenever I hear the song White Flag by Dido I think of R. In my head, this working man's gravelly, slightly off-key voice wafts over her soothing melodic one as he sings along to the radio that sits outside on the grass as we work side by side, paint-spattered and full of tea...

I'd known R for years, though there were long gaps throughout many of them where we had no contact at all for no particular reason other than age and distance. And for the past few years we have returned to exactly that: no contact at all, just memories, since R passed on to wherever it is we go when we pass on and reached the end of whichever path held his own personal destiny.

He was a simple but engaging man, and his eyes held not only a twinkle but an element of depth. There was some weight to the steely grey of his irises and the strands of his hair that clearly illustrated a life intertwined with challenge. Just as powerful to me, though, was that he appeared to be a perpetual victim of the wrong kind of love.

R taught me how to paint. Not the artistic kind of painting but rather house painting where our canvases were composed of plaster and compounds and domestic memories. He would hang wallpaper with me in the day and oftentimes his head at night. He taught me how to fix cracks in walls while attempting to repair the seams of his own fragile life. We would pore over colours and notebooks and supplies while pouring endless cups of tea and sympathy.

He would balance over stairwells on milk crates perched high up on beams too small really to be meant for such feats which, if you can picture it, was a perfect representation of my vision of him if I were to sum him up in a single snapshot. He always appeared to be hanging in the balance.

R would confide in me and ask my opinion on all sorts of things, and we developed the most unlikely of friendships. He was flattered that I'd crossed an ocean to become his apprentice, to learn his trade, to soak in some of his skill and knowledge. We would often go to the supply store to pick up materials, and he'd announce to anyone who would listen that I had travelled so far to learn just from him. I was happy to give him his moment of pride. I was happy to bring out the twinkle.

My temporary role as his apprentice lasted for just a few weeks. Our first job involved fixing up a tiny one-bedroom student house, but we moved on to progressively bigger jobs and by the end of my time with him, we had painted the entire exterior of The White Cottage, a sprawling house which featured a giant pool, a private tennis court and a lady of the house whose boozy lunch parties we would glimpse at like urchins through the large windows at the back of the house. We would bring our old tennis rackets and escape to the courts over lunch into this other world so different from our own.

It was while we painted that R would sing along to the radio and lose himself in his work and the music around him. His voice would float along through the air and he'd be lost in the moment, a smile on his face, his steel-grey eyes looking skyward, the melodic breeze sifting through the strands of his hair.

R has been gone from this earth for about six years now, but I still think of him often and wonder if he ever found true happiness or love anywhere outside of a tennis score. I will always remember this generous complicated man and the elusive twinkle in his eye. R, my most unlikely of friends...

And when we meet
Which I'm sure we will
All that was there
Will be there still