This is another of those pieces I wrote long ago. I wrote this after John died. I never thought of myself as a writer so I never kept anything.
John and I both came from Camelot, not the kingdom of so many centuries ago, or from the one thousand days of an American Presidency. But, from a surreal place, a place that was never meant to be surreal. A place that was always meant to be real and tangible, but never was, nor ever will be. This was a Camelot that was intended to expand — encompassing the whole world with its perfection.
John left Camelot suddenly, after a birthday party. My expulsion was slow. I never knew I had left, until one day I looked around me, realizing I was lost in an imperfect world.
I never knew John, but I would have liked to have shared a cup of coffee with him … just once. Maybe on a forgotten dock, where sandpipers played in the surf, their cries carried on an ocean breeze that caresses you ever so gently, both body and soul. We could have sat like long lost friends, and talked about nothing at all. Comforted by the fact that though we had little in common, we were both sons of Camelot.