When I was young, barely an adult, I lost my dearest friend before he’d had time to blossom, before he’d found wings to fly. We so loved one another. I still miss him after all these decades. And I still remember word for word the very last thing he told me to do.
We were both Michaels, though he was always Micky to me and I was always Mikey to him. He was like a brother, almost a twin. He was colourful, smart, full of dreams and schemes. I sat close beside him in the hours leading up to his death. We wept together for hopes not realised and mischief not made. We knew these chances were gone forever now.
Hours of deep love and deep pain. At one point I pleaded: “Micky, please. Don’t die. I can’t bear it. There’s gotta be something we can do to turn this around.”
Micky didn’t respond. He just closed his eyes and lay motionless. I waited tensely, not daring to say anything or even touch him. I feared he’d gone. Then suddenly his eyes opened with surprising confidence, as if his strength and life-force had momentarily returned. He looked me straight in the eye, very intensely, and then in a trembling voice laden with that unique authority of the dying, he said to me:
“Yes. There is. Get out there and love more extravagantly than I’ve ever loved. Dream more wildly than I’ve ever dared to. Be fucking fierce, mate. Stand strong when those bullies try to bring you down. Don’t flinch. Do this for me. Please! Do it. Then when it’s your turn to go and I’m the one sitting in the chair next to your bed, there’ll be no tears, no regrets. We’ll just laugh and laugh and laugh, cos that day, Mikey, we’ll know we’ve both been healed”.
Rest in peace, dear Micky. At least for now. I’ll wake you when I’m done.
