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| Early in the week a friend dropped off a dozen eggs, laid by her brood of hens. The plastic bag was hung on our doorknob, and we received a call that there was 'something' outside after she'd gone! These organic tasties have the most yellow yolks! |
I’ve had to let the events of the past week wash over me a bit; quite a lot happened. Internationally, there were thousands of deaths, and in my general circle there were three. Not all of these deaths were Covid-19-related. A young man who attended my alma mater, and was apparently everyone’s best friend succumbed to this virus; friends, colleagues, and my school mentor made gut-wrenching social media tribute to this wonderful young man. I knew him only peripherally.
A work colleague lost her husband to a years-long battle with organ cancer. He departed the world surrounded by his loved ones. In a karmic twist, his passing was within hours of their daughter giving birth to their first grandchild. I stepped away from our virtual staff meeting to wipe tears away from my eyes.
Then I learned about my favorite tattoo artist—and person to run into randomly at the end of a 20-mile bike ride—Fudgie. This guy inked only one of my pieces, but it is my most cherished. We met a decade before he tattooed me, hanging out in scuzzy bars in a dirty city, and spent years in and out of each other’s orbits because of mutual friends, vices, and musical tastes. The first time we spent multiple hours solely in our own company was when he rendered some vintage children on my upper arm—to commemorate the loss of my best friend, Travis. I’m not counting the couple nights that he crashed in my studio apartment after too-much drinking; in those instances we probably passed out talking about bands and mutual friends, then awoke to the small talk of ‘aspirin’s in the medicine cabinet’, ‘stay hydrated’, or ‘lock the door when you leave’.
Fudgie was my friend. He was one in a million. He was found dead.
