François

I remember pushing the heavy door open and climbing the stairs to their welcome. Friends in tow, years since our last meeting, they were overwhelming in their generosity. Backpacks were downed and iced drinks pressed into our hands.

Fussing over the child of old friends, we were fed and entertained, asked about our European adventures of that summer. Conversation sparkled in the hands of this distinguished old Frenchman, who spoke impeccable English through a cloud of cigarette smoke. It didn't seem strange that a couple in their sixties should be giving lunch to a foursome of weary teenage travellers, at a final stop in Paris before heading home.

I remember his intelligent eyes and friendly chuckle. He was one of those people who sticks in the memory; a positive, warm man. I haven't seen François since that summer all those years ago and learning of his death from lung cancer last week was a real blow. If I made a habit of praying, I would pray for his widow and their son. As it is, I'll be thinking of them at his funeral today.