In memory of Stephen Thorpe
1957-2001

Imagine walking into a large room full of strangers. Not just any random group of strangers, but people who have known each other for years, are very close friends, and can even recite each others' favorite snack, or the names of all their children.
And not just any random group of friends, but people who are witty, intelligent, well-read, mature, and known to wax rhapsodic and authoritatively on any topic that happens to drop into their expansive and inquisitive minds.
Would you turn and run? Hide behind the fiscus? I would. Except for one thing, and here is how it happens:
One person in the crowded room suddenly notices you. He immediately detaches himself, drops whatever he is doing, even if it's concocting the perfect patch for faulty human genomes and curing illness forever, and hastens over as if *you* were the very person he wanted *most* to see at that very moment in time.
Taken gently in hand, you are gracefully led around the room, introduced, shown the secret handshake, made to laugh, given a corsage, asked to dance, become engaged, net.married, and called in the morning. And this is just the first five minutes.
Time passes. Soon, you are a friend, and make many friends. Your life is happier, birds sing sweeter, the sky is a welcoming blue, and the world blossoms.
Eventually, another shy stranger peeks into that big, rollicking room, and you know *exactly* what to do because you've already been shown the most pleasant example of how to behave, what to do, when to act, and then you think:
I want to be good.
I want to be kind.
I want to be fun.

Just like Stephen.

 

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