On Monday morning, they called for you and knocked on your door, and you were already gone.
You were always the little one, the hip one, the rocker, the foodie, the On-The-Road modern Beat. Acerbic, smart, curious, uncompromising, philosophical, multiply-skilled, creative, aggravating, funny. Became a lawyer yet retained a near anarchist streak with punk roots, someone who saw through the nonsense of convention and at the same time had no time for lala woo. U Penn trained in economics, admitted to the bar in MD and DC, started work for a while in international transactions and you soon had enough of the sort of corporatist bullshit that environment brought with it.
We went through so many ups and down as you sought to keep tabs on and deal with substance issues and behavior disorders, the highs and the lows. And the highs were so bright, I think they’ll carry me along a good long while. But I had so wanted to keep having those highs coming.
You were the one with whom to share common points of reference, be it from music or britcoms or SF or political philosophy, and the one who’d never stop getting on our case about how I was the one getting old, and that all the AARP junk mail was still for me from when I last lived there and not for you. But we thought we’d one day be the two old fellows, going all Waldorf and Statler on the world from our porch or bench or chatroom. Would have been a fun last chapter.
I was looking forward to what burns you would have for me when I turned 60 later this summer, just as I did for you when you got to 55 and how we always had the chat about whether it always rained on Good Friday in our hometown and if we had checked with someone. It was so good to have had that last one, man. But I’ll so miss that next one when that date comes again.
Hurts so goddamn much to miss you.
Is such a great joy to have had you.
Thanks be to life that let me, while it lasted.