I lost a good friend last October. He was a French/American named Gerry Briggs living in Paris. But, in spite of the distances, we shared our lives and stories with mutual interest and respect for many years.
He was older than I by a generation and a wealthy man to boot. But neither of those were important. What was important was the urge to share our stories and to be interested in the other’s.
I’ve missed him in the months since he passed. But occasionally, among my music, a song called ‘Une Belle Histoire’ by Zoë comes up and it stops me in my tracks each time.
The song is quintessentially French and it never fails to call him into my mind. I’ve realized now, belatedly, that much of my affection for France was due to him living there.
I recall how he loaned Colette and I a small room in the garret of his building for three months back in 2013 and we had the freedom to roam the City of Lights for those months. And, in the years that followed, how he came here to New Zealand and how we visited him, repeatedly, when we traveled to Europe.
Mortality is not an easy thing to cope with. And his passing has brought this home to me. I’ve lost friends before. But, perhaps, none so close. Someone whose inner realities I’d shared as a friend and confident.
You are missed, my friend.