Of all the things there were to notice about him – it was his thumbs that made me stop and watch him for a few extra seconds as I passed his office. They were like ballerinas, long, bending then arcing and swaying – they were beautiful.
His dress was that of the typical code jockey – black pants, black shoes, white shirt, black tie on meeting days or loose-fitting shirt over a t-shirt and a pair of jeans on his non meeting days. But his face was anything but typical. I always thought it would be like an angel’s face would look like – if such creatures existed. Big brown eyes that radiated intelligence and kindness. That lovely sharp nose and small mouth.
Later, it was his kindness and generosity that I had rightly read in those big, brown eyes that made my soul expand whenever we were in a room together.
Lying in bed on a Sunday morning kissing, laughing, talking as friends, giggling over Facebook jokes, petting our two cats – us against the world. Team Johnson. A cocoon we reluctantly left.
The day I picked up his ashes, it shocked me that 49 years of that beautiful man was contained in a baby blue plastic container with a cheap label slapped on the top, carried in a white paper bag.
Of course, it didn’t contain him. It had the remains of a body that cancer could no longer destroy. He can no longer be contained – not by a container or a body. That wonderful, unique pattern of energy coursing through his body’s brain that made him Paul – it no longer exists. The pattern is gone – the energy in chaos and part of the universe.