I first met Jonathon in the early 90s, and we became mates or buddies rather than close friends. He was one of the main organisers of a local flower show while I was one of the main exhibitors. I didn’t realise his disability until years after we met. He hid it and compensated for it so well.

We lost touch in the late 90s when we got distracted by the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune (as someone once put it) of our own unique lives.

Then in 2021, as life and outrageous fortune would have it, we both bought retirement apartments in the same complex, and ended up living next door to each other. Due to a shared horticultural interest, we resolved to turn the communal garden into a showstopper. The plan was then to invite the general public to visit for a few sunny Saturdays each year with the aim of raising funds for local charities. Unfortunately, tragedy struck three years into our renewed acquaintance.

.

He was galloping

through life with his

Captain Caveman hands

and awful granddad jokes

when an aneurysm

ripped his heart

a decade too soon.

.

We were complementary

in the gardening group:

he tilled the soil

while I transplanted

the seedlings,

and when

we told everyone

that he had 5%

Neanderthal DNA

and I had only 4%,

they half-believed us.

.

Branded unteachable

in childhood,

he nevertheless

worked for 50 years,

raised a family,

and cocked a few snooks

at societal norms.

.

Horticultural accolades

ensured a triumphant

two-fingered salute

at classroom memories

and profound dyslexia.