Lloyd didn’t like very many people. He tolerated most of them. Some of them were diluted enough to think they were good friends with them. If they only knew what he said about them behind their backs.

We spoke of music, art, and of history every time he came to my office. One year when I had been terribly sick with the flu he came to my door with a pot of onion soup. And though I had been to sick to get out of bed, my husband received him. I believe to this day, that soup was what got me out of bed the next day and gave me what I needed to get better.

Lloyd found out he had throat cancer in early 2007. He was started on radiation and chemo. During that time, he was given a hazardous waste sign and scrubs with mask. It was because he’d become susceptible to infection and had to wear it outside his apartment. One day he called me to his apartment and told me to bring the camera. I did. When he opened the door he was hold the sign and wearing the scrubs. he wanted me to take a picture of it for his friend Jim, as a joke. I did and printed him a nice large one in color on photo paper. I kept one for myself as well, which he thought was good.

As his illness progress he was forced to move to a 24 hour care facility. He called me often. And chastised me for not coming out to see him. I did go visit after that.

During the time his family was moving him out, his sister came to see me a great deal in the office to let me know what the progress was. One day she brought me a video tape. It turned out to be the same video Lloyd had loaned me almost six years earlier. He’d been instructed to give it to me with the express instructions to enjoy it.

His life was shorter from that point. Toward the end, visited as often as I could. By that time he was weak and unable to get out of bed. I sat vigil often, talking at first with him, until he no longer had the strength and then just sitting there. He occasionally would open his eyes, look at me, smile and then drift off to sleep. Late one evening I had been sitting there quietly in the dark, just watching him sleep. He just slept for a long time. Then he woke, his voice ragged, his breathing so laboured. He told he that out of all of this mess in the world, I was the only person he ever really loved. Then he drifted off to slept. He died 12 hours later. His sister called me to let me know. Apparently the last time he spoke to me was the last time he’d spoken to anyone coherently. She also thanked me, though to this day, I’m still not sure why.

It’s been almost a year my friend passed. I am still left with a place no longer filled in my heart with his warm and sometimes sharp nature. I find myself hearing his voice every so often and know that his life enriched mine for the better.