I reflected about how the vicar shared memories that Mr. Smith’s family and friends had of him. Mr. Lee asked me what I remembered about Mr. Smith. I remembered that he was a retired machinist who worked in the basement shop where he repaired things for his neighbours and himself. I also remembered how he worked over his oily workbench. I would often come to see him and would wave to him through the basement window as he worked. He would always gesture for me to come downstairs to talk. I liked him almost as much as Mr. Lee. We would talk about his latest project and how he would make the replacement part. He amazed me with his talent to take a piece of metal and transform it into a part for some broken motor or tool.
Another thing that impressed me was Mr. Smith’s ability to stay on task. Having a little attention shortage disarray myself, I would hop from one thing to another, but he would work for hours at his shop without ever getting up—save for the times that I would interrupt him. He was also very conscious about details. Perfection was necessary even on things that didn’t require such exacting specifications. I told Mr. Lee that Mr. Smith was like him. He would always take time to talk with me and was always happy to see me. When we would talk, he would try to convince me that attention to detail was important. I told Mr. Lee that I felt that he wanted to teach me about work like Mr. Lee taught me about life.
After listening to all my remembrances, Mr. Lee briefly asked, “Did you ever tell him these things when he was alive?”
I shook my head that I hadn’t and then started to talk about some other detail regarding the funeral. Mr. Lee’s mysterious inquiry went right over my head. As with most of Mr. Lee’s lessons of life, he had to spell them out for me. Today was no exception. Mr. Lee redirected me from my next point back to his last question. He paraphrased my admiration for Mr. Smith and added after each point, “You really appreciated him, didn’t you?” To each point, I affirmed that I did.
I couldn’t understand why we were going through this point-by-point restatement of my feelings about Mr. Smith. Finally, Mr. Lee summed up his line of questioning like a Chinese version of the great defence lawyer, Clarence Darrow, with the question that I ignored the first time, “Did you ever tell him these things when he was alive?”
Again, I shook my head and said that I hadn’t. To which Mr. Lee responded, “Andrew, have you ever thought that your friend might not know how much you thought of him?” Mr. Lee’s question resonated loudly inside my small head, and I understood. I felt shame and grief at the possibility that Mr. Smith didn’t know how much I really liked him. I sat silently in front of Mr. Lee thinking about all that he had said and more tragically all that I hadn’t said. It hurt me to think that I would never have the opportunity to make right my error. It wasn’t long before I realized that this lesson of life wasn’t limited to Mr. Smith; it applied to all of my relationships. As that realization dawned upon me, I got up and hugged Mr. Lee. Looking up into his all-knowing eyes, I said, “I like you, Mr. Lee. I really do. You have always been my best friend.”
By Andrew Feldman