Recently, another piece came into being—a trio for clarinet, cello, and piano. It was a commission, a special and very dear one to me, which I’ll tell more about soon. Today, it will be about the person who, as it happened, became the inspiration.

We were friends, though not from the beginning. At first, we circled each other warily, without trust, watching closely and expecting an attack at any moment. Over time, trust grew, and with it came calm and the certainty that the attack would not come. Probably. Despite an obvious element of male rivalry. The turning point was his illness—serious enough that he barely made it through. He surrendered completely to care then, like an infant being bottle-fed. He let himself be convinced that it didn’t have to be the end, though he was entirely ready for it. The end would have been natural. But he allowed himself to be pulled back from the doorstep.

From that moment on, there was friendship between us. At times rough, not without a touch of mock aggression kept within a clear framework—but unconditional and pure. Beautiful.

Until the recent end. Somewhat accidental, but natural and expected. He, after all, expected the end at any moment. That’s was his nature. He didn’t dwell on it. He was cheerful, which balanced me. We had time to say goodbye. I cried. He didn’t.

Farewell, my dear friend.