Thundering Silence: On the Life of Liam O'Neill, My Friend

In the last twenty-four hours, following a phone call no one ever wants to take, I have learned that when your best friend dies there are few remedies. Usually when something bad happens I bury myself in work. By immersing myself into a fictional world, the hurt passes. But yesterday the words would not come.

Instead, I have learned that it is best to work on small things; things I can do mindlessly. I have learned I can strim the backyard. I can drive to town to shop for dinner. I can walk into the Church which is only half-open due to the virus that also killed my friend. I have learned that on the day of his death I can light two candles. I can sit at the piano and play three hymns to an empty church with only a few mistakes.

I have learned that I am very good at crying.

I can also think of him, and what we did together, and mutual memories.

Liam O'Neill was my friend. He was a filmmaker, director, and writer. More importantly, he was a good man; a good husband; a good father. We had some things in common. He was born in Chicago six months after my own birth (he always joked that I was the old man) only a few miles from where I lived. We both had to move to Ireland to meet. We were both Cubs fans. We had a mutual dislike of Trump. We both had a passion for film. He was much more knowledgeable than I will ever be.

I can think of how we met; of how I got lost walking to his Fredrick Street, Dublin offices. I ran into his wife, Annabel, who pointed the way. He optioned my first screenplay, even though the writing was poor. He did it, I think, out of kindness and - always the teacher - to fuel my enthusiasm.

We worked on many projects together, visiting Berlin a number of times, and Austria. We grew closer because work became only a backdrop for friendship. When I moved to Eyeries, we talked most days. When the phone rang, it was usually Liam. We used each other as sounding boards, or talked of US politics, or vented to each other about life's less pleasant moments, or shared the memories of family members who had moved on.

Always, there was laughter or a joke. Always, there was support and kindness. And why not? We were mates.

Yesterday, just over twenty-four hours ago, Liam died of Covid-19. He leaves behind his wife Annabel, his children Ben and Ella, his family living Stateside including Una, Tricia, Catherine and Charlie, friends and colleagues all over the world - and me.

He leaves behind a life that is unfinished because it was stripped from him far too young.

Ireland is still under lockdown. I can't drive up to help Annabel and the kids, or say goodbye to my friend. I can raise a glass, however. As I hoist it, the sun sets, the silence cracking like thunder.

It is then I realize the phone will never ring again.

I miss him.