The boss

Another thing I had done the evening of December 22nd, after having heard that it was just a matter of time before my friend would pass away, was a mat session. I was alone in the studio, and I dedicated my practice to B; I imagined I was channeling his light, his kindness, his warmth in every move I made.

Afterwards I took a long, hot shower. I sat in the sauna. I was especially aware of my breathing, all too clearly reminded of this fragile link that separates the living from the dead.

So when I left it was late, and I had one more Christmas present left to buy at the supermarket. Pulling into the parking lot, wiht just minutes left before the store would close, all of the sudden "The Streets of Philadelphia" started playing on the radio. Spellbound, I turned off my motor and just sat there, absorbing each note, word, and (heart)beat.



His funeral was on Thursday. Utter sorrow. So many tears. My heart went out to his wife and children. Paradoxically, it was equally beautiful, and a cathartic comfort was brought about, not in the least from the music that was played: Simon & Garfunkel, John Lennon, The Rolling Stones, and finally, Bruce.

That evening, when I got home, I started the car to drive my daughter to the mall. She asked to turn on the radio to a station that plays "good" music.

The first song to be played was "The Streets of Philadelphia".

Benneth: We know that you loved reading. Maybe you'll manage to find this. Throughout six years of cancer, chemo, operations, and hospitalizations, you still managed to call me several times a week to see how I was. So I expect that you will find a way to keep in touch even though you're no longer here. Vila i frid.