Life is a journey they say, but I guess you only realise that it is an actual journey when the friends that used to be sitting next to you, watching your back, are no longer there.
I have been fortunate enough to find good and honest people along my path. Today, I want to remember José. José was a friend of my former husband, but when the divorce came, he chose my side.
He was a very relaxed person to be a Mexican lawyer. Sometimes, he would present himself not properly dressed to be in court: trousers with creases, a stain on his shirt perhaps, messy hair, hand-written notes on an unevenly folded piece of paper. At first impression, you wouldn’t give him any credit and would think the worst would come for you as a defendant. Judges, I imagine, would look at him and think that an easy session for them was on its way. Not with José, no.
José knew the criminal law inside out. He was always updated and ready. Once he took your case you could rest assured that he would win. He was fierce and ruthless in his own way. He would never raise his voice or impress you with the eloquence of his speech. He would speak slowly, quietly, pausing occasionally but, he would be clear and accurate, making his points with no fuss.
Did he defend guilty people? Yes, he did. Sometimes by choice and sometimes by obligation. I always loved to listen to his stories and to learn from him.
His greatness in the court rooms wasn’t reflected in his later days. He died of cirrhosis, because even though he was brilliant, he lacked the willpower to stop drinking. He was silly in that sense, the silliest person ever. I say that because it hurts me that he died in pain, in confusion, in a public hospital and in bloody poverty. Why? Why?
After he was admitted to hospital for the first time, we had a few long conversations over the phone. He confided in me some of his current family affairs. He felt like a burden, he felt lonely and abandoned.
The time I rang his number and his wife answered, I knew it was over. Little was said. I cried. It hurt me. It still does. He was always there for me and I couldn’t be at his funeral. I live in Australia now and Mexico is too far away.
Today, I imagine myself on a train, continuing my life journey. I wish he hadn’t gotten off so early. I wish we could still chat. I wish we could still laugh. His seat is empty and hasn’t been filled. The train keeps going, it doesn’t stop. It is always moving. Life is indeed a journey.
Burnside Writers Group 