One blue ankle sock, two rolls of string- one open and the other sealed, one fine-tipped black sharpie pen, one portable cycle pump, one drum stick, three beer bottle caps – one Carlsberg and two Desperados, one black bow-tie, one black wallet with an ID and a few receipts from a college bar, a paperback in French by Jacques Godbout called ‘Salut Galarneau!’, an English translation of an Egyptian book called ‘Maze of Justice : Diary of a Country Prosecutor’ by Tawfik Al-Hakim and a hardback black journal partly covered in his hand-writing and a purple hair colour spray.
And the smell of old things.
These things were unearthed from the bottom of his cymbal bags today just before I was about to give them away to his friend and drum teacher who he had great admiration for. Each one of these things was a thread from different stories from various parts of his life. I couldn’t remember them all but these were familiar things – real but distant. Seeing all these random things on the table, I felt he was here, reaching out to me. They encapsulated him so utterly completely and beautifully. He felt heart-breakingly close.
I want to ask him to remind me the things I am forgetting. Please. Remind me. Please.