A farewell letter to Gus, list of the things I never said

I woke up today to no less than five emails telling me Boxing Day sales were now on. Tuesday?!... Damn! I checked my content calendar and I noticed my writing themes for the blog were not only all over the place, out of date and late and that, admittedly, I have not been all that focused in the last week or so. I should have issued a video last week, I should have posted this two days ago -according to my tasks list- I have barely bombarded your news feed with Christmas messages, some tips and the regular stuff I send out.

In the last 10 days so much has happened that every day felt like a month: I lost a friend, I gained a new tribe, I got a new job.

Angus Watson left us last Monday, the same day I was celebrating someone’s birthday, I was crying over the loss of this amazing, fun and crazy soul. There were a few things I need to tell him so here they go:

Dear Gus,

I remember the first time I saw you, back in the days of the Wednesday Club meetings at the benches in Brick Lane in 2013, and Maj telling me I needed to meet you and that you were one of us. I can’t tell you how or when it happened, probably over the Orphans Christmas dinner, or over the long afternoons by the Bethnal Green fields, but we talked with no filter between us. We were rude, crude, shockingly honest.

The most fun were the gym sessions and the pointless afternoons at the balcony at the Safety House. I think fondly about you and I running around Victoria Coach station trying to sort out cash and last-minute supplies before heading to Secret Garden Party. That silver sequin jumpsuit you were wearing then was total success! You truly looked like my lost unicorn…

Gus, I wanted to come to visit you in Mexico, it was my true intension, so I’ll keep that promise to you. Once I’m back in Nicaragua I will go and see your friends and chosen family in San Juan del Sur. I will even shotgun a beer with them.

I love your hugs, you used to shout my name, open your arms broadly and squeeze me real hard, whilst I put my head on your neck and rock a little.  Man, I will kill for that to happen one last time. I close my eyes and still feel your arms around me, like a brother always so protective.

Since you left us, I got in contact with some of our friends, reached out, shared some photos and memories and told some truths. We never know when is our turn to go, so thanks for reminding me to stop getting distracted and to show more care.

Death has this bitter-sweet taste to it: there is appreciation and love, yet some sadness and at times a little regret for the things we never got to say. Know darling, I’m so grateful to have in my life and that you will always be the best unicorn.

Love you, Scary Mary