Dear Jacques

Dear Jacques,

You will already be on your way by the time you read this letter. A new start for you; another relocation. I’ve lost count of the amount of farewell letters I’ve penned to you in the past.

Written words have always been easier for me than a heartfelt speech. Remember when I messed up the groom speech at my own wedding? Melissa grimacing next to me, whilst we both couldn’t contain our laughter. How that should have been a sign for the marriage to come.

My most worldly of friends. In the sixteen years since our first meeting at school, you’ve experienced so much across every corner of the globe. Whilst I’ve stayed amongst the comforting hug of London’s smog,  you embraced life as a modern-day nomad. Wandering from place to place and creating a temporary home with just a backpack. A few different outfits, a trusty silver compass complete with scratches and my letters from over the years. This was very nearly the fullest extent of your belongings. The city of love, sin city, the big apple, the city of angels, just a few of your nomad dwellings where you called home for a time.

I have vicariously lived through the photos you would initially email just to me, and now the photos you post on social media for the world to see. I’ve imagined myself in each and every one of your photos. With Lady Liberty arm held high to the sky, standing in front of the Eiffel Tower with a beret atop my head and drinking an Aperol spritz on a gondola in Venice. Oh, how I wish I could be by your side. How I wish I could have seen just a tenth of the sights that your eyes have. No shackles tied to your ankles, every day waking up with a sense of freedom and liberation. Prioritising your need for adrenaline-filled adventure above all else. Life. True life.

The bi-annual trips that you make to London have always been the highlights of my year. Seeing you return with that glimmer in your eye, a fresh tan from a tropical sun and a flare that makes our suburban terraced house rise into life whenever you step through the door. And how the kids love you. Jacob and Esme always screaming “Uncle Jacques” as soon as you arrive, insisting that they accompany me to pick you up from whatever London airport you got into. A role model to show them how to live life to the fullest on their own terms. Not to conform to societal expectations. Much more of an uncle in their lives than Melissa’s brother. Of course, you know how she has always disliked anything other than traditional.

When we first met, French was both your mother and only tongue. The interpreter who sat between us in class, Caroline if my memory serves me correctly, quickly became expendable as we created our own shared language to divert communication away from her. Like messengers during a war. Your English then improved as we sat at my parents’ house and played video games every night, picking up important phrases such as “Knockout” and “Game Over”. Our shared language became universal, and the hustle of London started to feel familiar.

As I sit at the desk writing this letter, the firelight catches the compass positioned in the centre of the mantelpiece. A reminder that this time you’re wandering even further on your travels. In fact, this will be your final trip. Somewhere to call home forever. A nomad no more. And even though I write this letter knowing that it won’t make its way into your backpack, I hope you still get a chance to read it.

Jacques, ever since I had the phone call five days ago, I can’t help but see two different people before me. The first person being the one I have always known since school. The laughter. The freedom. The uninhibited hedonism. And the second; a person that only laughed on the face of it. Explored new sights and new places as a way to escape their own thoughts. Were you in fact still speaking a different language? I never got a chance to know this person, and if I did, I hope that I would have been able to change the path of destiny. I question every second of the day why you didn’t let me know your travel plan, or if there were any signs that I ignored, both subconsciously or on-purpose. It pains me to think that you walked alone.

I think now about the other side of the photos. The tripod you set up, or the countless strangers you must have asked to help you.  All of the letters from all of those years now in a drawer inside my oak desk. I can’t bring myself to read them, to relive the missteps of my words. How you must have felt reading how I wished to travel uninhibited, unshackled, alone. Maybe I’m in fact as bad as writing as I am at speeches.

Melissa moved out yesterday. I finally built up the courage to tell her to go. You never expressed it, but I could tell that you never liked her. I’ve made a promise to myself to be more like you. Like the you I knew. No more scowling across the dinner table or heated comments thrown into the frosted air; life is too short. We can’t run away from our problems forever. We each reach a point where we can no longer ignore the direction that the compass is pointing.

As Esme and Jacob grow in height, they will also blossom in happiness from their new homes, experiencing the best of both Melissa and I separately in our own created environments. No animosity. They will however no doubt miss the times when you visited our collective home, and created a warmth that could never be replicated when you weren’t present, even on Christmas Day.

The next time we’ll meet won’t be in London, and instead I’ll be the one visiting you, once my screen too reads Game Over.

Until the next trip.

Farewell Jacques.