Two weeks ago, a group of us met for a pint to celebrate my friend's birthday.
About 30 minutes in, through the pub window, we saw a taxi pull up. Out stepped my friend's father, Peter, who was wearing a fine suit. And a backpack.
Peter and I didn't know each other before this night.
Fortunately, he sat next to me.
Unfortunately, the live music made it difficult to hear each other. Especially for his 89-year-old ears.
But that night, I learned that Peter went to Oxford.
I learned that he loved Jazz (That's where he got his nickname, although I didn't get the backstory).
He was a professor and lecturer who travelled the world to speak.
He has written four books.
Words have been his superpower.
But the loud music was his kryptonite on this night. It clearly disoriented him, and he occasionally lost his train of thought and couldn’t find his words.
When this happened, he would put his face in his hands and grit his teeth. He was so frustrated, he couldn't hide it.
In between songs, I asked him if he still writes.
He shook his head.
"I don't. And if Judith were still here, she would slap me."
Judith passed a short time ago. He lost the love of his life. His muse. And with her, his motivation.
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