Oddly in it’s way, it beckons,come and sit . Neath the high, stained vaulted ceiling, by the sunny harbor window, still squats my turquoise chair. Plenty of stories left deep, as crumbs seem to also find a home in it. The word came to me, as standing on our landing, avoiding the most recent missing stair, I paused at our door- “Velichor”….”The wistful quiet found in a used, old book store”
Memory came unbidden, of a passage I once read, “Together, as the hills did, they grew old” Though he claimed to dislike the chair, my life’s partner would be found there, reading. Sock feet on the radiator, for beyond carpet there be splinters from floorboards worn and cold.
It was Godfrey taught him, the simple method of draining noodles, and other boiled things like eggs under the shower. Shared same sly delight in squeaky bed springs, and the unerring ability to choose the worst motels, with crime scene tape across the doors, and warnings of (“Peeping-Toms, and of ” the last room we got, where died poor old man Green, but don’t worry bout nothing, Marlene got it clean”)
“I have never known my Garnet not deep in a book, or map, or globe, time and age has spared his fine features the heart break I have had to endure- “Craquelure” …He told me once, “I know that you know that I know that you- laugh yourself to sleep many a night”. “And I know that you still do”.
Neither you, nor Godfrey ever in your two blessed lives, not once screwed the lid down proper on the brown sugar. Learned not to leave Marmalade bits in the butter, drank from the carton with whiskery gob, considered all things toilet, “my job”.
It was Godfrey, defined it, for many gifts of wisdom he gave me, and was on an early morning, he and I driving north, out of the city. “He pointed where the sunrise hit, reflected off front windows of a posh house in the distance, built on a rock cut high above. Godfrey said, “I wonder if who built that house, built it with love”. “you, my friend have found that most elusive gift of light too, sung of in ancient ballad, read in sonnet, Haiku, written in bad novel, opera and ode, you have it in your Garnet Odd, that glint in the sand of gold, rarest gem of all, he is your jewel in the road”