It's February again. It always sneaks up on me. I start getting moody and sensitive, and I can never figure out why - and then - oh. Right. February.
Today is your birthday. You would have turned 41. I should be calling you to give you shit about being old, even though I am not that far behind you. I should have spent the last year telling you how crazy and amazing my life has become, despite the virus, and hearing your deep, rich laughter - not being surprised by any of it. I should be hearing about what performances you are getting ready for, and planning which dates would be best to go. We should be eating monster burritos, shamelessly housing the entire thing, laughing about it, and then getting a drink to celebrate you. We should have been spending days on road trips, me telling you "you're fired" as you repeatedly passed gas.
I always loved the complete openness you had, you being completely unashamed of your humanity - even if it was what you struggled with the most.
What I would give to try to tame the monsters inside you, the ones that ultimately won the battle... But that is a story for a different day, a different reason why February is so hard.
For today, I remember you, I will listen to Sweeney Todd, I will enjoy the winter - as I write this I am tearing up watching the gentle, persistent snowfall, knowing you would have loved this; tonight I will drink a toast to you, burn some tobacco, and honor your day.
Happy Birthday, my friend, I miss you everyday.