Dear readers, I only have a handful of wedding photos. The reasons are myriad, but that’s a story for another day. Today, I’m writing about my beloved friend, George, and his larger-than-life presence.
Among my wedding photos, there’s one that stands out. It's a snapshot of pure joy, featuring George and me. In the photo, I am adorned in my bridal gown, and George, in his sharp tuxedo, is by my side. Handsome as ever, George is grinning from ear to ear. His duty on my special day: to act as the Greek emcee.
George wasn't just a friend; he was the brother I never had. Learning of his death brought an outpouring of tears, a raw expression of loss. The absence of an obituary leaves an unsettling void, stirring up unanswered questions and deep regrets.
Steven Leder, in “The Beauty of What Remains,” captures the essence of loss: “our hearts are inevitably broken by death.” This holds true when I think of George. Regular life “masks our grief,” yet it’s the sudden memories that bring back the sting of losing my mischievous, handsome friend. His voice, his laughter, and his unique mannerisms remain deeply etched in my memory.
Our friendship began at the Greek Orthodox Young Adult League (YAL) convention in New Orleans, where we connected instantly. We met in the pool. I’d piqued his interest – “Why would a Greek-Canadian girl travel all the way down to a Greek-American convention, if not to meet her future husband?” It was at this same convention where I first discovered George had a good luck charm that always accompanied him: a well-worn silver dollar, barely recognizable from years of handling.
After our initial meeting in New Orleans, we became inseparable – exploring West Seattle, travelling to other conventions, hours spent shopping, frequenting cozy coffee shops, eateries, and always – always – taking long walks through Alki Beach Park. George was the heart of our group, “the mayor of West Seattle,” his warmth and charm drawing people in. He was more than a friend; he was the older brother I cherished, a confidant through life’s twists and turns. Our friendship remained solid, even as I walked down a different path.
George’s romantic life was chaotic, a whirlwind – there was always someone new – it was hard to keep track. He had this habit of bringing his new romantic loves to my mother, Evangelia, in Vancouver. Initially amused by his visits and introductions, my mother advised him to only bring someone serious. Eventually, the introductions became less frequent. And, eventually, they stopped.
The last time George visited stands out in my memory. It was in Victoria. I was heavily pregnant, confined to the house on doctor’s orders. The three of us – my then-husband, George, and I – sat together, in silence, on the big, beige suede sofa in the TV room watching some silly action movie. We made an odd trio. My then-husband to my left. George on my right with his hand on my belly, a poignant and complex moment reflective of our shared past and the choices made.
After my daughter’s birth, George’s visits dwindled. He mentioned border issues, and our connection faded to sporadic phone calls. During one such exchange, he asked, “Christine, are you happy?” I spoke of happiness as a daily choice in marriage.
That was our last conversation.
During the pandemic, I learned of George’s death by accident. The news received through an acquaintance from West Seattle. When I asked what happened, all they said was, “Christine, he was sick for a long time.” I didn’t press for details. Part of me didn’t want to know more, fearing the worst. The lack of an obituary only fueled my imagination, leaving me to grapple with the uncertainty of his final days.
In recalling George, I cherish our moments in West Seattle and our heartfelt conversations. He remains an integral part of my heart. Despite the unanswered questions surrounding his death, I choose to remember the laughter, the adventures, and the lasting impact he had on my life.
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