A light as gone out in my life.
I have few, if any, strong men, male figures in my life.
I never have.
I have surrounded myself with the opposite in fact, strong women.
Perhaps that's my mummy issues.
But there's no denying there's daddy issues there too.
And when a strong man, of morals and kindness in equal measure enters my orbit, we find one another.
It's a rarity and it's treasured as such.
When I came home from prison, I was a shadow of my former self in many ways. An empty shell masquerading as the Fran people remembered.
One of the things that brought me back to life, was my writing. Something that has been at my core for as long as I can remember. For as long as I have been able to hold a pen, I have created, escaped and exuded my emotions on paper.
Much like my dear friend to whom I write now.
Whenever I write a blog, an article, a university essay, a cover letter, a chapter for my book, it all goes to the same place; the eyes I trust most, kind and blue, and gentle in their honesty.
Erwin.
A strange friendship I'll grant you and one he thanked me for daily, in little messages back and forth, should my WhatsApp ding on the daily, I fully anticipated it would be him.
With little notes of praise, support, direction - always welcomed.
But more often than not, updates on his life, well-being, writing, his bloody boat, pride and joy of his recent nomadic lifestyle.
On a literary pilgramage and journey of self discovery - "a man of his age" as he constantly reminded me.
Feeling woeful in his aging and youthful in our connection, we were, as he coined "literary soulmates," and I agreed.
When I write, he reads. When he writes, I read and we have a beautiful back and forth on our politics, passions and purpose. What was it all meant for? Why did we exist in this time and place as we did? And wasn't it a joy, a beautiful twist of fate, that we had found each other?
A Fran searching for a man, of safety, sanity, comfort and intellect and a man searching for a Fran, of conversation, liberation and literary reprieve. Here we were, the odd couple.
Recently home from prison and writing from a place of unfiltered anger and frustration, Erwin happened upon this very blog and sent me a message on Twitter asking if he could publish one of my pieces in Inside time - I was thrilled, and of course said yes.
He gently edited it and then, having read more of my blog, added the bio to my first piece in Inside Time
"Francesca Barker-Mills is a writer and prison reform campaigner,"
He sent it to me with a smile and merely said "I thought you would appreciate this - because this is who you are,"
He believed in me. Whole heartedly.
He knew my past, my present and planned my future with me. Back and forth on chapters, advice, pointers, words of inspiration, absolutely ridiculous tales of his past that never made it to the pages of his books but only for our quiet contemplation of life and resilience.
Resilience. That was, it pains me to write in the past tense and not have him here to correct my grammar and tell me it needs to IS not was.
Was.
Erwin was resilient. Always honest in his misdemeanour and mistakes, taking ownership of all the good and the bad, all that was and all that occupied his mind now.
Shunting from the welsh coast to the boat, Faithful. She fucking isn't now.
Sending picture updates of the trials and tribulations of a life and love of the sea. Upcycling like he was auditioning for a BBC television series and making it his new life work to be the best boat on Air BnB.
Always asking when Fran, when, when will you and Sarah come and see her in all her glory?
Videos of seals upon the marina, honking and waking him in the early hours with their amorous behaviours.
Seagulls shitting on his pride and joy and making his blue beauty of the sea and sight for sore eyes.
Diluted with trips to London to be the man we know and love, campaigning, speaking, sharing, caring, changing, fighting and shaping a new world for those who came after.
He didn't want the suffering of a new generation. He didn't want prison to leave marks and scars on people as it had done him and he was always for the idealistic notion things would get better, even when he felt they might not in the darkest of times.
He would pick me up, with a cheeky message and a dad joke or ten. I'd roll my eyes and reply "I'm at work!"
And he would ping back "Where are my chapters Barker-Mills?"
And remind me - a great writer needs a great editor, so we're well matched!
He was like a proud dad, and I suppose that was why I resonated and magnetised with him.
We shared an unshakeable bond of broken childhoods, and traumas we don't speak of, and lives complicated in ways we can't express to others even when we wish we could. So we did, for one another.
The writer and the editor.
A promise my dear friend, I'll finish the chapters.
No editor will be as great or as kind. Or as pushy, or as ferocious, precocious and hopeful.
And I promise, yes I do.
The dedication on page one, will be to you.
Gone to soon, but with me and my writing and my pen, always.
🙏💔
ReplyDelete