My friend Maurice died this Saturday. I’m not sure if he was in the hospital or at home. If he was alone or with friends. I don’t know if I was such a good friend or not.
What I know is what Maurice was to me. A teacher, a brother, a father, a critic, a supporter, a writer, an artist, a cat person, my first grown-up friend, a chef, an old school coffee maker, a claustrophobic, a smart sarcastic mother fucker, a blue eyed devil, a cheeky saint, a technological noob, a focal point, a native american.
I knew he was in the hospital a few weeks ago. I will regret fearing to see him the rest of my life. My mother kept me from seeing my grandfather who was in the hospital when I was 13. She said she did not want me to remember him that way. I would have liked them to have seen me. I would have wanted them to see that I was there. I could have reminded them how they impacted my life.
I could have given him a hug.
These are the words I would have wanted to say to you were I to have had the courage to stop by.
You were the single best teacher I ever had. You were the second best father I ever had. You had the best coffee maker if you liked grounds in your mouth. You will always be in my heart.
I will miss you Maurice. I hope you know I loved you.
That pic is the last day I saw Mo. Back in August. I helped him up his apartment stairs afterward, got him situated, and said goodbye. I am glad I got to see him–it had been awhile. Be kind to yourself, Joe. Try.
It’s in my blood to beat myself up. It was good to see him. It was always good to see him, whenever it occurred.