Miss you, Friend

Robert Busby
Originally uploaded by Patrick T Power.

Almost two months after the fact, I still can't bring myself to delete his number from my phone.

One of the last conversations we had was me giving him tips on how to decrease the amount of swelling from his upcoming oral surgery, and him laughing that of all the people he knew, I would be a good one to ask about recovering from surgery.

The painting that we both liked, which I just happened to buy before he did, sits on my mantle, still not hung, price tag still on it. When I bought it I didn't know he was thinking of buying it until our friend and fellow Old Town shopkeeper Dan told me. I dropped by the Gallery right afterwards proudly holding my purchase, and giving him a good-natured teasing about getting it first. He just stood there, with his big toothy grin and just laughed his hearty chuckle. He said he already had too many paintings, and it would be perfect for me. He was right, it is. But I almost refuse to hang it, much less peel the price tag off of it, because part of me doesn't want to forget the great moment with him behind a mediocre painting.

We had talked about holding a charity concert at the Gallery to fund raise for my bike ride. I got a really late start on fundraising, in part because it's a bittersweet fundraising challenge without him and just doesn't seem quite right.

He was just like a little kid at Christmas when I showed him the blog post I did about the Gallery, one of the very first on my blog. He was so proud, he showed it off to several people throughout the next couple months, and liked to brag about me being a blogger around his friends.

I go and sit down at Portable Feast, always hoping to see his head pop out from the simple black curtain that separated the Gallery from the Restaurant. I see the locked door that's replaced the curtain, and I grow somber remembering he's gone.

I was driving home today, watching for other drivers as I went through an intersection, and I swear I saw him driving a car that wasn't his. For a split-second I reached up to wave, but sadly realized that my eyes were lying, it couldn't possibly be him.

Not quite two months later, and my heart still aches, still breaks a little each time I realize he's really gone. No more warm hugs, no more cheeky grins. No more waves through the Gallery's front window as I stroll past on Turner Street.

His name, his memory, his legacy of Old Town still vibrantly lives on in his friends, his family, his city, but Robert Busby is gone.

I miss you, friend.