I met Ilmo in the early nineteen eighties when my family moved to a small town in Finland, where, obviously, I did not know anyone. I was seven years old, I was small, alone and shy, a lot of similarities with Ilmo (minus the shyness of course). I remember my first day in the new school, and I remember the first boy who came to say ”moi” (that’s ”hi” in Finnish) and talked with me during lunch break.
And we saw each other again the next day at school and became friends. At the time, I did not have many of those, and after meeting Ilmo, I did not need that many.
Together we explored the forest near his family home, rode our bicycles on the countryside, gathered apples from his backyard, climbed trees, jumped roofs, shot arrows and fought with nunchaku’s (soft ones, even though he had a ”real one” also).
And we talked. We talked a lot. About lots of things. We talked about birds, and butterflies, and cats. We talked about stars and supernovas and time travel. And we talked about this new thing called a computer.
As we grew older, we talked about life and death, future and past. We talked about our plans and fears and dreams. Ilmo moved abroad and we talked about Finland and US and UK and culture, and language and travel. We both became fathers the same year, and again there were new things to talk about. We talked about our parents and how to find out what kind of parents we were going to be for our sons. We talked about home and how to make one. And of love. These things that truly matter in life.

There were still many talks to be had. Many new things to share, many questions that would challenge my viewpoint, many insights I am now left without.

Ilmo’s curiosity, wisdom and ability to challenge the ”opposition” was endless, surprising and demanding, but always served with gentleness and humor. I consider myself lucky to have known him, listened to him and talked with him. And being his friend.

I will miss all that.

Niilo