The Hemingway quote, “Every man has two deaths, when he is buried in the ground and the last time someone says his name. In some ways men can be immortal,” came into my mind the other day.
I was searching for a name in my mobile phone, and came across the name of someone I cared very much about who passed away some five years ago.
His smile and voice came into my mind instantly, the memory of his excitement when he found he had received an important award, how he had fussed so much about what to wear.
Flamboyant, charming and so talented, he was one of the very few that got away with calling me “Frannie” without getting his ears boxed.
Other memories from a very long friendship with him drifted through my head, made me smile, and I spoke his name.
What I discovered though, was although I can no longer call him, there is no way I can take his name from the list. It is impossible.
No doubt some wondrous psychologist will give me chapter and verse but it stays there.
I thought more on this, and began a search, and there they were, each bringing their own special memories, and in every case their face and voice drifted so clearly through my mind.
The little silver haired hurricane who lived across the road, and through her total vibrant personality and determination dragged us out of the mental trauma we suffered after the bushfires, and the dear sweet gentle man who came to the races with me and was shocked as I screamed and yelled as Lohnro made his famous run to win the Australia Cup.
There is another too, that still leaves me bewildered, as our dear and long-time friendship ended so abruptly.
I am still at a loss as to what I supposedly did to cause it. It really hurt that I could not say goodbye to her when she became ill.
Still, like the others, I cannot bring myself to take her name from the list on the phone. I find, through the long list of names, there are several that will stay.
Am I alone in this? Why do I find it so hard to remove their names?
I wish they were all here, laughing and chatting in a happy group.
I so dislike empty chairs. Hemingway was right.
