Two and a half years later. A friend said so today. Is it really? Two and a half years since I shared a joke with you? Two and a half years since you made me think? Two and a half years since the text message came that told me you were gone? Yes. It is two and a half years later.
Your friend died. We memorialized him today. Forty years your elder and yet he outlived you. We remembered you and thought what you might have said or done. I was sad. I knew him less than you, but I was sad because I know you would have wept. And joked. I was sad because I missed you.
Your picture is in my office, on a shelf. You’re smiling. You’re in other offices, too, all over this place. I would say “like a guardian angel,” but no one who knew you would call you that. Maybe you’re our guardian devil, or our trickster at least.
I hope you would be proud of me. Proud of all of us. I’m still working on the questions you made me ask myself when I met you, four and a half years ago.
It seems like a gyp when I think about it now. I only got to know you two years. How unfair. How wonderful. Because I got to know you at all.