Difficult to say…
He sent me, seemingly out of nowhere, a Wikipedia link to “the blue plate special.”
He said something to the effect of, “I have a feeling you need to know this; I think you can do something with it.”
I had been struggling for a way in to write about myself, because it does not come naturally to me. He had pushed me: “Everyone has a blog about themselves, you write one too!”
These are now extremely painful memories, since my friend committed suicide, and I only found out about it six months after it happened.
There are endless questions, some guilt, some blame at him, at me, at circumstances, at life, and a lot of anger. I have never before known someone near my age—he was only in his 50s—to commit suicide, and now I am even more ambivalent than ever about writing this blog. One could say that perhaps I should continue it in memory to him, since it was his idea, but in fact, one of the things he and I disagreed about was the interest anyone can, or should, have, in the day-to-day ramblings of irritation that this blog too often became.
If you know someone who has committed suicide, and you felt close to them, as I felt to him, then I think you’ll understand. His belief was that people are interested in what other people have to say about aging and getting older, and how one handles that. I can’t tell you how bitterly ironic that thought is to me now. It has taken me almost two months to be able to write about his death, because to write about it is to make it real, it is to inscribe it, it is to be forced, by the action of my own words, to believe it’s true. I have been in denial ever since I found out. I still find it hard to believe.
So, Henry…. these thoughts are for you, but I can’t continue this blog without you, my friend. There is very little point, since you will never read it again, you will never critique it or give me praise, you weren’t alive to read any of the hidden messages I left for you about Paris or Hemingway last summer. It is dreadful having to write on these subjects without you as my reader and my audience.
Regretfully, I will stop, and go back to writing the other subjects that irritated him so much when he was alive, about the things of interest to me, that were not of interest to him.
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest….
my dear friend…
Henry Edmond Sauvageot, 1955 – 2011
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