About a week ago, I boarded a flight. There was the promise of sunshine to enjoy; hours of uninterrupted sleep; the pages of books I’ve been meaning to read. There was a birthday to be celebrated far from home, something like a new slate.
And for a few days, there was exactly that.
Now though, there is a stretch of time both infinite and infinitesimal. The separation feels only like a burden.
My fingers are rusty. This space cobwebbed. This is not a post I ever wanted to write.
29 is not an age people are meant to die. Certainly not people you know, people you love. The few words on a screen, written by someone who didn’t know him for the purpose of news, a plea for information, they don’t, can’t do justice to a person who blazed his way through the lives of many like a comet across an inky sky. It seems wrong, almost insulting that his name is not topping Google searches, that somehow there are people who don’t know, who can’t understand.
But grief is not universal. And that makes it harder to take.
He didn’t belong to me not really. He was a wonderful satellite that, when he rotated around to me, reminded me that time and space are not powerful enough to sever that which binds family together. He sat on my new turf a couple of months ago and he made me grin when my mood was black. Our last goodbye was inconsequential because you never think that your “take care, see you in a bit” is going to be the very last you get to say to him. There are others that do belong to me, who are broken; who need arms and the kind of industrial strength love you mine deep to provide to get them through this.
These, my own words lack the weight of what it meant to know him.
I have nothing else.
D, the mark you have left on us is both beautiful and indelible. Thank you.