A Post From a Friend

My dear friend, Judy, sent me this essay about Paul on his birthday. I loved it and hope you enjoy it, too. Thanks, Judy!


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Paul Did Not Die Here

We got the news early in the morning. Paul had gone home. The chains of illness no longer tortured his body. He was finally free from hospitals and needles and feeling crappy. The only glitch - he left behind an army of people who loved him and wanted nothing more than to watch him live out another eight decades on the planet.

It must be hard for the people who saw him on a regular basis and then suddenly did not. Hard for his family, who loved his smile and his charm and most of all his huge, huge heart. Hard for doctors who fought very hard to kill that nasty bug called cancer that felt so at home in his tiny body.

We live two thousand miles away. We did not see Paul every day, or every week. We saw him just a few special times, when he flew to our state to have treatments. We were blessed to have him and Leigh spend weekend days and nights hanging out on our couch and curling up in our huge papasan chair. We soaked up their company as we sat around fire pits and sang campfire songs. It was pure fun to tromp through the woods and throw rocks in the creek to give them a break from hospital routines. Even the drives down to the City and back were a treasure. I got to have long involved discussions with Leigh while Paul and Sam played hot wheels and legos in the back of the car. It was always a joy to have them in our company and in our lives.

And because we live far away, we were not able to attend the funeral. I am sure it was an amazing celebration of Paul's life. I'm not sure I would have been able to sit through it without weeping. Weeping for the loss of such a special life that touched so many people in six short years.

But because we were not in Texas in the weeks after Paul's death, we did not soak it in, as his everyday friends did. It was just a string of words....'paul died this morning...' that did not compute and did not add up. It is easier for us, even to this day, to let those words evaporate with no holding power.

Because Paul is still alive in New York. A year and a half after his death, he is not gone. I look out my back window and see remnants of a fire pit, covered in snow and hibernating until the spring thaw brings back the circle of lawn chairs. I see Paul, huddled in his mommy's lap, holding a long metal stick that has a smoldering marshmallow dripping off its end. Paul is still here.

I glance over to the bulletin board in my office and see a small pencil drawing on white paper. It is the top view of a hot wheels speed boat, carefully drawn and given to me by a sweet little kid who had worked very hard on it while we drove the long highways to VT and NYC. I can still see his face as he handed it over to me, ready to get rid of it so he could jump into his next creation. That Paul is still very much here.

Sunday will be the day Paul would have turned eight. But he won't be at his own party. He is somewhere sweet, enjoying the good life, and waiting to wrap his skinny little arms around his family again. And his family will have the party and celebrate his life anyway. They feel his lack of presence deeply and may never get used to the fact that he is gone.

But for those of us who live in Upstate New York, Paul is not gone. He was here and he is here, today and every day that his spirit lingers in our home.

Happy Birthday Paul. Wherever you may be celebrating today. You will always be missed. But more than that, you will always be remembered.