It happened last Thursday at our usual gathering over at Gina and Stefan's place. A low key evening as evenings go at this weekly event. We had already been through some difficult times over the past two weeks, the passing of Gina's grandmother, the Leeloo tumbling down the stairs at Garrison, head swelling and blackened eyes still visible. We needed a little something, something to remind us of the good things that life had brought to us all, and the fact that life had brought us all together.
But it was a sorrowed joy that we would poured that night. As Stefan crossed the room sheepishly, hand placed gently around Macallan's shoulder, there was a look on his face that bore the words he could not speak. It was almost over for Macallan, a friend that we had only been introduced to about this time last year. The kind of friend that you felt you knew forever, the kind of friend that made you feel content and omnipotent.
Why is it that the good ones always leave us too soon? Sounds trite and flippant I know, but when it hits home, this kind of sentiment hits hard and all to fast. Macallan, eighteen, gone. Some may find solace in saying, "Oh, you have such good memories, let's speak of the good times, Macallan would want it that way" or "Don't worry, there will be others, 10's become 12's and 12's become 18's", but we all know that it doesn't happen in a sherry oaken world .
So now Macallan, I walk away from the empty vessel knowing that your ghost has crossed over the River Speywill to walk the Easter Elchiesonly with kin that has come and gone before you. We sing your praise, a song with no regret, no what ifs, only longing and memory that teases the palate and warms the heart. Good bye Macallan 18, so young, so old, so good.
sir, you are an inspired writer. made my eyes water about whisky...
Posted by: stef | June 30, 2008 at 04:07 PM
So, let's make and drink to new friends on Thursday.
Posted by: Michael | June 30, 2008 at 04:28 PM