My Friend Paul

He goes by the name Paul, but that is not his real name.  He has an easy smile, and mischief in his eyes.  He is a playful spirit, who I connected with immediately.  We spent hours on the roads together, trying to get to different mobile clinic sites.  He was not only my driver, but acted as translator, since I had not been allotted one.  He taught me the history of the area, taught me about snake houses, and shared his precious coconut wine, which I couldn't bear to tell him, tasted more like goat urine.  He is off of work this week, taking the leave that he hasn't used.  Yesterday, he took the bus for a two hour ride from his home in Kilonochchi, to meet me at the hospital, just to goodbye.  Once we drove to where he had been living during the war.  The church that he attended was destroyed.  All of his belongings were stolen.  I asked if he played any instruments, and he lamented that he loved to play the guitar.  I have tried for nearly six weeks to find a guitar to give him, since his was destroyed.  But to no avail. I feel badly that I haven't come through for him, like he has for me.  But he doesn't see it that way.  He sees us friends, who can joke together, sing reggae together in the truck, and laugh together, despite the fact that pretty much everything that he has ever had, has been taken from him.  I love his spirit.