He knew his was short but his passions were strong.
He tried to prepare those he loved subtly. He knew theirs would be longer so he aimed to make a big impact, to make his mark, to make a difference.
‘We should all strive to make an impact!’ he’d say as we prepared for the next show. ‘It shouldn’t make a difference if it’s a long or short one!’ he’d joke as we helped him into his costume. He didn’t like to discriminate.
I remember his large, warm, strong hands holding mine while he read my palm, his fingers softly caressing each line. ‘This line is quite long,’ he said, ‘you will have plenty of time to make your mark.’
His lifeline was too short.
Hundreds of people turned up to his funeral. They were from all walks of life, people who would never have connected with each other without the commonality of that one person. All telling a similar story of their experiences with him, how he had changed their lives in some way.
‘There was a plant obstructing his access to the wheelchair ramp, so I moved it,’ one person said. ‘He insisted on buying me coffee and gave me tickets to his next show. That’s when I decided to run for Council. We’ve met for coffee every week since.’
He knew. Life is too short to waste a second of it.