Ian

Ian died earlier this year.

He was my best friend all through university. Gradually life took us in different directions and I always assumed there would be a someday when our paths would cross againa nd we would pick up where we left off.

I had a specific image of it, one I returned to often. An airport (it was always an airport) and the sight of him across a terminal, and my heart doing what hearts do when they recognise someone they love. A great big hug. All that lost time dissolved in an instant.

It happened, and not like the image in my head. Our paths did cross again and we picked up where we left off, older and wiser and just as glad to see each other.

I didn't expect him to die young. Does anyone?

He was the first boy I loved. Not romantically, but with the kind of love that is built from respect and kindness and the rare feeling of being entirely yourself in someone's company. You see, Ian was gay and in the army. He was gay and in the army when being gay was shunned and being gay in the army was disastrous. It was the days of “Don’t ask, Don’t tell”.

Ian showed me a world I didn't know existed. He made me question things I had never thought to question, and look at the world with new eyes. He showed me what it actually meant to be kind, to be seen and to belong.

I still have the notes he passed me in the middle of class. I remember exactly how he made me laugh. I remember him being a bit too generous in his use of CK one. I remember sitting on the floor of his living room and watching Pricilla, Queen of the Desert while eating pizza and drinking orange soda.

My impact on Ian's life was negligible. His impact on mine was life-changing. I know this, and I hold it, and I am forever grateful that for a few short years, he was mine to know.