You surprised me with your death. I think about people dying a lot. You were the perfect distance from these reflections. I couldn’t imagine yours…not in a million years. Once I watched and admired from the periphery, the support and inspiration you gave to the community. Now I feel it. I am more alive for it. Somehow I feel closer to you, to the people grieving and celebrating your life. The pace is slower, the sky, a more generous blue. You have colored my eyes like a child and polished my sense of wonder.
The last big memory: Circus Center. I climbed the fabric and there you were, in a little window. Your face lit up and you ran down to meet me. I descended too and ran toward you for a hug I knew would be good. But it wasn’t just a hug. You lifted me off the ground and spun me in circles. The child in me was greeted with playful reverence. Excited and nervous, like stumbling onto a loving carnival ride. It was awkward for a moment when you put me down. I wanted more and I didn’t know what to say.
Just like now.
You must know what I’m feeling. You felt it so strongly…the longing to connect. And so you offered the same to others - inspiration, support, a way of making each person feel important, beautiful, possible. I took you for granted, as I do many people, places, experiences. But your passing dissolves that too.
Your death becomes a perfect frame for your vivid and extraordinary life. You make me want to pick people up, spin them around, treasure each set of wonder-filled eyes. You hugged me as if it were the last time I would see you. And indeed it was. I’m so sorry I didn’t know it. And I’m so grateful that it’s how you treated everyone.
Thank you Joe. Thank you for that permanent reminder. Never in my experience has there been such life in dying. My heart hurts so badly and I’m grateful for that too.
