Desmond

Desmond was a Flicker

Desmond didn’t ask for a portrait. He never asked for anything. I did it anyway, and he thought it was kind.

We often chanced upon one another at midnight or thereabouts, under the streetlamp at the crossroads when the sky was dense and as mucky-black as a gravedigger’s fingernails. Sometimes under a full moon. Me and my stinky dog, snuffling in the hedge, and Des puffing on a cigarette, usually French. I squinted into the shadows while he stared at the stars through what remained of his spectacles. Bandaged hinges, precariously balanced.

He was an inventor of unique electronic things. A singular human who knew how every vital spark was created, and why it worked. No kindness was too great for his off-kilter heart.

Desmond bequeathed the fag butts he flicked to the base of our meeting post. I couldn’t preserve them, but like him, they’re not dead, just misplaced.

We miss you.