ONE LAST LETTER TO MICHAEL

I know it’s not Monday, but I had to write this.

So many of you read and especially responded to my post Michael, we’ll always have Paris, telling the story about how my friend Michael and I met in 1974 and formed a loving, warm and fun friendship from that day forward. The following is a last letter to Michael, who sadly passed away last December.

If you didn’t read Michael, we'll always have Paris, you can find it by going to the column to your right, scroll down to blog archive, click on December 2011 and scroll down till you find that post. If you haven't read it, you really should.

Dearest Michael.

This is the last letter I’m going to write you, as I have a feeling the padded wagon will quickly pick me up if I do this more than once. The true reality is that you won’t read this, but my reality, the one roaming around in my heart, says that you will – and to me, that’s the only thing that counts. So after this letter and until we hook up again, we’ll communicate telekinetically in words, not making stuff move around, of course - you know what I mean, huh?

Drove south to attend your celebration last Sunday. I arrived 15 minutes before show-time and there were so many people and such a long line outside the hall. I said to a nice woman that you had told me I was your best and only friend ever, so the long line was confusing to me. She warmly informed me that everybody loved you and that you had a massive quantity of best friends. Oh well, hard to swallow, but I lined up anyway - with all your “other best friends”.

The hall was "standing-room-only" full of people chatting away, and a lot of laughter too; I expected nothing else. I signed the guest-book; nearly wrote PBS as you always used in the E-mails to me. For some reason you saw humor in my initials matching Public Broadcasting Service.

And then this pretty woman came up and gave me a hug. I hadn’t seen your daughter since what 1974-1975? And that son of yours was nearby and we finally got to shake hands. Good looking dude, huh? Must be from his mother's side, no doubt. Your wife looked strong and radiant and the hug from her felt good. She must have hugged at least two-thousand times that Sunday afternoon.

Your son started the celebration of you and did that very well. Stories from his childhood with so many praising words about you. He obviously loves you no end. He can even sound like you, and at times he sounded even better than you ever sounded - go figure.

Then it was your little girl’s turn and she had a hard time holding back tears; I was fighting the same fight. Her words about you came from deep in her heart. I think your little girl will never stop being your little girl, as her love for you is so strong and so clear; it was beautifully emotional.

Your brother misses you too. I mean, who is he going to pay lunches for now? I envy the brotherly relationship you guys had, and I am certain that the free lunches (meaning he paid for you) was something initiated by you very early on and for 20-some years? You often mentioned the lunches with your brother, but never that you were on a free ride. I guess you knew I would have given you crap about that. The way you talked about your brother, I can only see that the love for each other was rich and respectful.

Your lovely wife wrote a poem for you and I had to dry my eyes yet again. There had been no time for farewells, I understood, so I have to believe in my heart that you heard every beautiful word she sent your way.

Many fun stories about your, at times, weird ways of opinions and how things should be done according to you, but not much shocked or surprised me; except one thing. Speakers hinted about your height (in a loving kind of way, for the most, but to me a bit insensitive at times). Sure 5 foot 4 inches is not Michael Jordan tall, but I was confused as to why people would laugh about it. To me you were always as tall as could be – for a short guy like you, I mean.

I miss you so much Michael, I really do. I tried to find out the reasons other than the obvious, why I choke and tear up when thinking and talking about you. I have finally come to the conclusion that it’s due to my anger that you died way too early, as you had so much more life to live. For crying out loud, we were supposed to grow old together and then die a million years from now; I thought that was the plan. You were supposed to be around for your wife, your kids, your cute grand-kids, your brother's free lunches and for the many friends and extended family. Your too early departure was not fair to any extend – very far from. You not being around saddens me, but too early on, angers me.

A big photo of us from October 2009 is hanging on the wall in front of me, above my desk where I write and work and spend a lot of time. The kazoo hangs next to it.

I want to stay in touch with your daughter, your son, your brother and your wife. From what I saw Sunday, they will all move on, greatly cared for by each other and so many friends, neighbors and loving family, all missing you forever – I have no doubts about that;  but just in case, I’ll check in once in a while; for both of us, okay?

We will all move on with you solidly planted in our hearts, the many hearts you touched through your life, no matter how gruff your voice was, because you really loved life and adored the people around you, in that own way of yours (gruff-gruff).

Mr. Kazoo-Man, you take care and I will do the same. I will shed many more tears and choke ups, but I’m fine with that now – I really am; writing this last letter to you helped a lot - and in my heart, I imagine that you will read it and fully understand how much I love you.               

Your Pal Always,
Peter (PBS)

Michael & me, October 2009

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