This weekend a family lost a pivotal piece.
Opening the ever malicious social media I was greeted by a goodbye post.
I read through it and my heart sank.
Fuck…. what was his real name!
He was well known by a nickname.
As was Dave.
I scrolled through Facebook seeing post after post.
Being in October stings in ways you cannot image.
Whether silent ice cold jabs.
Or warm closely held slices.
Reading through it was obvious how truly loved this man was.
Leaving behind a young determined Mama and their beautiful daughter.
He was an artist. Of the tattoo variety.
This being truly my only link to this stranger I was sobbing for.
When I moved back to Arizona in 2016 Juice had his setup off Montezuma.
I walked in one day tears probably streaming as they always had.
I wanted a tattoo with Dave’s ashes.
I don’t know how well he knew Dave if at all or like me he had been scrolling and seen.
There was this knowing across his face.
Without hesitation he said he would and asked what I would like.
An old English D on my ring finger.
White, so it felt like a secret between Dave and I.
I was losing my mind then.
I’m not sure if I got the semicolon that day or in the days to follow unraveling at a rapid rate.
Let me tell you getting a tattoo on your finger is no joke.
He laughed as I yelled “Fuckkkkkker fuck” in various ways.
I will always remember that.
It meant so much to me.
Now sitting here I can’t help but think of his widow.
Knowing what is to come.
Wishing it didn’t have to hurt how it will.
I cry for her little girl and the missing part of her future.
Selfishly I am also focused on myself.
Soon he will have been gone longer than I knew him.
The kids both grown well past what he last saw.
The girl he left behind not nearly as naïve.
Rip Juice Man!
Thank you for spreading your light. Hang tight with the homies till we see ya again.
optimisticwidow.com 