He entered my life when I was eleven or twelve; one of those friendships that arrives through another friend and then outlasts everything else. Now, at forty-five, we remain brothers across continents and time zones that barely touch. My friend, among so many quirky things, had a religions relationship with To Kill a Mockingbird. He carried Harper Lee’s novel like it was sacred text, not just a book but a moral compass. I remember watching him speak about it, his eyes catching that rage towards the fire. Only a handful of people believe so deeply in something; justice, integrity, the kind of quiet bravery that doesn’t need to announce itself. In so many ways, he embodied Atticus Finch. I am not, by nature, social. When I encounter rare souls, I sense their energy like heat from a flame. Then, I met you, River. I fell in love; truly, madly, for the first time in my life. And there it was, in your suitcase, worn at the spine with love: To Kill a Mockingbird. That same book, that same black cover with the orange drawing of a bird. You carried it everywhere; to different countries, for work, on holidays. It lived in your backpack like a talisman. I remember when you left suddenly; in the rush of that goodbye; not knowing it would be our last. You left the book behind. When we were no longer lovers, when everything else you’d left could have stayed forgotten, the one thing you asked me to send back was that book. I hope the book is still with you now, and guide as a compass. For times when the planet spins drunk with madness and decency feels extinct. I hope you read it again soon, letting its words remind both you and this weary Earth of purpose; to believe, despite everything, in the possibility of goodness.
//G