To everyone who’s known me over the past five years, it was no secret that this guy had my heart. For better or worse, Joe was one of very few who have affected me so profoundly. His perception of life, in all its absurdity, novelty, and beauty was integral to my experience of it. No matter what I was experiencing or how cryptically I communicated it, Joe understood me; he was so keen, so intuitive. It wasn’t always convenient, sometimes downright disarming, but it was valuable because of the unique connection it offered. He had so much to teach everyone he encountered. I don’t think I’ll ever meet anyone with his style of expression, his wit, his brilliant, dizzying way with words that was simultaneously critical and celebratory, usually hilarious, and always right on the money.

Uncle Jonagold. Bunky monkey. Little ba-loo-jay. “My heart soars like a hawk.” I wish I had done more to protect you. I’m so afraid it will be the deepest, most stinging regret of my life. After Aaron died, I was so floored, I clung to you. Thank you for taking me to his memorial service, though you made us terribly late, for hugging me so tight the last time, every time, all the times I cried so hard, holding your collar between my teeth, not wanting to let you go. I knew I had to let you go, but I never thought you would recoil so permanently. It’ll never be you again, texting me or scratching on my door like a serial killer the way only you would do. You’ll never waltz in with that characteristic Goodman gait, swinging an expensive bottle of gin, smelling like a new car, smiling that beautiful smile. You were so beautiful, it was so easy to love you. I know I’m not the only one whose life was indelibly marked by your beauty, all the beauty you appreciated and shared, the music and films and literature and art. So many things remind me of you, everything you touched had that unmistakable gold dust on it. Since I met you, no one could touch you, and no one ever will. You were so special. I’ve spent a large portion of my [still-burgeoning] adult life, and so much energy building this supportive infrastructure around you that was How Much I Cared For You, and yet you collapsed inside of it, slipping silently, irrevocably away.

You once said to me, “Cups runneth over.” I wrote when you were alive that the love I had for you was brimming in such a way that bottles fill up unnecessarily with liquid, and I’d have to dutifully empty each bottle, with no one to drink from them, and no way to turn off the spigot, the stimulus for all my love. Now it is finally imperative I empty these bottles ‘cause I’m drowning, and I just have no business, no business at all feeling this way, especially now that you’re gone, and you have no consciousness of me. You couldn’t appreciate how much I love you if I finally told you, if I shook you, or shouted, or screwed up the nerve to write you a hundred letters. There is no recipient. Only radio silence. A rubberband snapping back at me, with nothing to hold the tension. 

Joe’s absence is so piercing to me at this moment that it’s difficult to believe that this is the place to be. And since I’m still reeling from Aaron’s death, it’s doubly brutal. They were so good, that wherever they were was the place to be. Something is so drained from life, I can hardly believe the trees have the audacity to be moved by the oblivious breeze, or flowers to push up so insistently from cracks in pavement as if there is anyone to perform for. I want to tell the world to stop spinning, to call off the whole show, that all of life is playing this elaborate burlesque before an empty auditorium. I see no point in buckling up, or brushing my hair, or making food taste good, or painting, or learning, or doing anything lifelike to secure my position here in this empty theater with no compelling forces. Joe is dead, and the world is dead, and the soul is dead, and love is dead, and life is dead, and death is dead. The fact that I feel personally accountable is such an unbearable thought that I can’t even discuss it.

But I know that I’m wrong. This life is where it’s at. Aaron was wrong to want to leave it, to stop trying to trek through all the miles of mud that lay ahead of him before the green could break through. I know so many people who wish they could have proven to him that it would break through, it always breaks through. And Joe just made such an errant mistake that I should be angry with him that he could allow me to saddle myself with this weight. He should be here now, helping me “coping gracefully”, apologizing to everyone he touched, and everyone he hurt by riding aboard the train that only goes one direction and makes no stops, yields for no one, not even the brightest minds like his, the most beautiful, kind, loving souls like Aaron’s. It is a lesson that they should have stuck around to learn, instead of forcing all the people who loved them to learn it, to apologize to each other, or even blame each other, heaven forfend. It is not just a tragedy, but a transgression that they perpetrated on themselves and the rest of us. I’m not angry because I understand insofar as I’m in a position to understand suffering, and the difference between skillful and unskillful ways of coping with suffering. 

And I’m only me. I have only so many intimate memories I shared with Joe, and with Aaron, and they should be so compartmentalized. There are so many others who spent meaningful time with them, likewise I have a greater deal of memories that don’t involve either of them, but are so precious. Those are the things I have to hold onto now, to motivate me to move forward, to fill seats in the auditorium, all the compartments of my heart. I consider this an absolute rite of passage, and it’s no dishonor to those I would love to death, not to let my love for them kill me, in a physical, or spiritual sense. 

Life is so precarious. I don’t know how long my life will be, but I will love and miss you for the rest of mine. ”Truly and bluely.” Mon pauvre ti loup. “You’re a daedal treasure and I treasure you.” Rest in peace.