There was a doorkeeper who smiled

left too soon, as ever

this is in memory of Adrian Tan, he left us lately, within a fortnight; my first paid subscriber, first annual one too; I remember you as I write,

He smiled, “You remember me from story books you read long ago, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I answered, “stories of islands huge and small, amongst seas and surrounded by world ocean. And like that chap, you were amongst it all, cheerful and constant.”

“Constant with what?”

“Constant that the wayward will return when they do, the doors you keep watch over ever welcoming those who knew their destiny. And in this way you encouraged me to write, just like I first knew your books.”

“How reflective of you!” He smiled, and then if faded into a straight-faced frown, more of glum gazing silence. “And what in my story books stood out for you?”

“You spoke then of the innocent longings of youth, brave in ignorance of the harsh real world out there and all around.” Before he responded, I continued: “Your life speaks of renewal, again and again, how you went from teasing wit, to serious vocation, through new technologies, to arrive at the final calling. Doors open and close, you keep them at heart.”

“Marvellous!” He smiled broadly, before looking sombre again, boyishness framed in determination. “And what do you think of my finishing touches?”

“You left too soon, my new old friend. There is so much I know so little, of the keeper of doors. But the ever child of you will guide me, delighting in the simple humanity of life around us. Let others remember your great work from a towering statue of stone. I will remember you waiting by the doors.”

“That could do it!” And his slight smile returned one more time, the volume of space between us speaking much in writing.