Last night's dream is amusingly haunting me...

A few months back, I honored--as usual--the birthday of my late friend, John. The yearly marker normally comes and goes with some kind of eerie connection that I know still exists between us, and this year was no different than those passed. It didn't occur on the actual date of his birth, but shortly thereafter, voila.

There is far too much detail to delve into, should I care to express the specifics. Just suffice it to say that there is a means by which I know he is always with me. Some inconsequential, some point blank obvious, but he makes it known that as I will never forget him, he has not forgotten me.

Now, how do I write, on a blog which encompasses the lives of my two precious daughters, and their father--my husband--about a man who was the most dear and generous friend a girl could ever hope for? That's a question I often found myself having to explain to Jeff, after John's departure. It wasn't easy then, and it doesn't get easier now...but I've expressed to my girls that "Uncle John" was a talent and a timeless friend for the ages. I can only hope that they both will find someone to fill their lives with the unique and unending friendship that he and I found together.

Music fills my heart, it bears burden, it shares joy. In John's expression of his soul through music, he exposed his very core in a melodic and temperate tone. Notes of high and low, he played them all and created a cucoon in which he cared for his sons, his parents, and his sisters and their families. He cared for me in there, too, there was always room for me.

We colored our hair together, listened to music intently for hours on end, we drove each other crazy ocassionally, as well. He was defiant and tenacious, mild and loud. Too loud, never. He played a guitar like no one I've heard before, effectually speaking through it-or as I often described: He could make it sing. He taught me about history I'd only scratched the surface of, and I created boundaries for him that he'd only heard of, prior. Somethings were better left unspoken, to coin a popular lyric from the times.

Sometimes, a relationship between a man and a woman CAN be platonic. It can transcend the triviality of dating and physical expression in the usual manner. Sometimes, two people can befriend and confide without the confinement or pressure of a romantic interlude. John and I captured that, we abolished the stereotype that was expected of us. And we gained, in spades, from the reciprocity of late night phone calls after a good "date", or a bad one.

Like two "old ladies", we could chatter and banter for hours on one subject--offering opinion, and heated debate, but culminating to an agreement to consider and respect the the opposing thought. It was like we grew up together, though we didn't meet until well into adulthood.

Girlfriends, boyfriends, they all came and went. They all knew there was a relationship here that would not be strained--nor could tarnish--that of a romance blooming. No matter which of us found ourselves in the midst of a "Mr./Ms. Wonderful Wonderful" scenario, all parties concerned understood that John and Camille were a team, and nothing could alter that state. He embraced every date that I brought to see him perform, and I welcomed all the girls that he would invite to a performance, often sitting with them while he played. It was perfect harmony on so many levels.

And then one bitter January day, he stopped answering his phone after a series of brief calls. Frightening phone calls where he indicated a terribly heavy pain in his chest. I rushed to his apartment and with the aid of a friend, entered through the back gate. The worst fear imaginable came true, and my dearest, most trusted friend was gone. I was alone, I was devastated, I was cold, and I was heartbroken. John was dead at 45 years young.

He left his two sons--his pride and joy--to grow up without a father. His sisters to question his contentment, and his insatiable appetite to belong with someone, to get answers to his unending questions. None of us was the same after that snowfilled night.

Jeff and I had just run into each other the week before John's heart attack. I still had yet to introduce them, and to get the nod of approval from my stand-in big brother. To this day, I will never know the outcome of that introduction. I am consoled that with Jeff, I was capable of waking up the next morning and facing the blindingly bright sky that etched into my weeping heart. I was capable of exhaling and living my life in forward motion. To this day, I question what would have become of me had the cards dealt been off, by even one suit. I am humbled that God cared enough for me to truly open one door, just as another was shut. It is the only way I can surmise the series of events of those few weeks, those passing days following the wake, the funeral, the burial. Brutal, life changing memories.

Last night I was privy to one of those uniquely 'real' dreams. The one where real time conversations occur with those who have left this arena. John was speaking to me on topics at hand, and tying in past encounters in anectdotal fashion. Jennifer's guitar practice, Monika's haircut, Jeff's new bike. It was a hauntingly familiar discussion, two sided, music entrenched. I'll be carrying this one with me for some time to come, as I haven't had one like it in several years. It was soft comfort, solid strength, everlasting satisfaction.