Friends

Earlier this evening I walked past a house in which a friend of mine, Sultan, lived some er -it's hard to grasp-23 years ago. We were about 17 years old at the time or perhaps he was a few years older. His name was Sultan. A talended guy, with a lot going for him. His looks, his brains. He had a good sense of humor, he was articulate, he was lucky in love.

For a few years we shared an intense friendship. Long conversations about life and about love. It was a time that I will never forget, the time of experiencing first loves, first sexual encounters and forging one's identity.

I cared deeply for Sultan. We were friends, not lovers, but the friendship was extremely intense. One day, though, in winter, Sultan stepped in the ice-cold water of the sea. And kept walking.

He has been dead for some twenty years now. Like many of his friends and relatives I'm left with many questions, even after all that time. Could we have done something to help him? What would have become of him had he lived?

I am a mother now and it saddens me greatly that Sultan will never be a father. I sometimes see his father though, on his bike. It's a strange world.

The only thing left for me to do is remember Sultan, make sure to remember him, to keep the memories alive. Like Jacques Brel used to sing about his friend Jojo, six pieds sous terre, tu n'es pas mort.