Memories, what funny things they are. Instantly, as immediately as a flash of light, and as speedily as a smell that suddenly teleports you someplace else, I remember how cold England is. Granted, that’s a somewhat strange discovery to be made by a native to ole Queen and country, which Britain was back then, but I had just returned home from living an expat’s life in the sunshine. And somehow I had forgotten quite how cold Blighty gets come November.
Nine months before, circa 2005, Bronson and I had traveled to Amman to visit with his mother’s family before planning tourist escapes to Petra and then Wadi Rum. Although it’s a story for another day, Bronson and I had something to face together in the dusty valleys of that desert. Something that had been waiting for us, and something that knew we would eventually return.
The nine weeks we spent in the Jordanian terrain, soaking up the heartbeat and mysteries of an ancient land of rocky deserts and red-stone cities, weren’t only some of my favorite memories, but would later serve as a love letter from Bronson to me. Because when he left this world in 2013, breaking our hearts and fractioning our souls, I would at least have those Jordanian days to fall into; memories of his laughter, so outrageously loud and musical, that within an instant, the world would seem restored, and all grief would become healed and resolved. Until the moment passes from memory to reality, that is.
Another memory I have, something tangible that I can reach out and touch, is the small sapphire pocket mirror that he bought me from an utterly amusing character called Father Nikos Benedict. Although the religious community of Jordan is predominantly Islamic, there’s a minority population of Greek Orthodox Christians, too. One day, when we had absconded from (his) family responsibilities and endless Al Ameed drinking sessions, we drove to the St. George Greek Orthodox church for Mass. I say we went to Mass, but it was more of a case that I went to Mass, and he went to nap on the hard pew next to me.
After the service was finished - which was one of the most beautifully and spiritually charged services that I’ve ever experienced - Father Nikos Benedict approached us. He was huge. Tall, round, and immense in both presence and energy. Beneath the fuzzy beard that mapped the priest’s face like a disheveled wilderness of grey and black cables, thick and coiled, there was an almighty-sized smile; warm and mischievous, and as toothless as a babe. The momentousness of his voice suddenly lightened. Reaching for Bronson’s hand, Father Nikos Benedict, the Arabian-Greek priest from Madaba, was suddenly as cockney as Moe from East Enders. Which, let’s face it, is really very cockney indeed.
After a conversation that couldn’t have been more British than if the late John Sullivan had written it (Only Fools and Horses), Father Nikos Benedict had somehow morphed into Boycie (John Challis) as Bronson became Del Boy (David Jason), and I was reluctantly Rodney (Nicholas Lyndhurst). All the Arab-to-Brit transformations happened beneath a Byzantine icon of a weeping Mother Mary, gilded in threads of gold. The only question, of course, was whether she wept with irony for the two Londoners wheelin’ and dealin’ at her feet; bartering over things supposedly fallen off the back of a Jordanian lorry. John Sullivan would have been proud, I’m sure.
Following the priest to a nearby café where even more Al Ameed coffee was served, Father Nikos Benedict introduced us to his friend, who quickly departed before reappearing. On his return, he was carrying an old-fashioned suitcase that looked to be from the 70s. Presenting it in a way that made me giggle – much like the peddler in Aladdin, who visits Agrabah to sell his goods, including one magical lamp – the man opened the suitcase, and inside was a treasure trove of shiny goodies. Including a sapphire pocket mirror. Bronson bought me that mirror in 2005, and it traveled with us from Jordan to Egypt to Cyprus before we eventually returned to the UK nine months later. That mirror has since traveled with me to countless countries before finding permanent residence in Georgia. Some people have a comfy blanky they’re attached to, and some people have a sapphire pocket mirror gifted to them from someone they loved with enormity. Someone they miss with enormity, too.
When I’m confronted with memories, the unexpected kind, it often sends me into a tailspin. Especially during this time of year when under different circumstances we’d be celebrating a milestone 50th birthday. Instead, there are no more celebrations to be enjoyed, no more memories to be made, and no more adventures for me to trail behind. Bronson died a healthy, carefree, thrill-seeking, and sometimes reckless, lad of 40. He died as a husband and father and as all the indescribable things that mark people as the greatest person you ever did know.
If there’s anything to be taken from this story of love and loss, it is this: LIVE. Go to faraway places. Eat weird shit. Be irresponsible, even if that irresponsibility has to be planned. Jump off cliffs into hologram-blue lagoons. Laugh so very much. Take photos of EVERYTHING; you can never, ever have too many photos. Sit within different cultures and take different walks of life, even if that means straying a little from your own path for a while. Tell those who you love what they mean to you, yes, but remember to show them too. Quite often, we put things off until tomorrow, and sometimes tomorrow is too late. This one is hard but try, with all your might, to never go to bed on an argument with any of your loved ones. For all the scraps and sibling-esque rivalry, and in between adolescent hormones, sulking, tantrums, and screaming matches, Bronson and I never went to bed on an argument. Not after we lost Bambi, at least.
Again, LOVE YOUR PEOPLE LOUDLY.
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