Anything could happen
February was, to sum it up in one word: intense.
It started out with the launch of the redesigned Millennial Pink, a joyous, maddening weekend of photo-taking, blog-writing and incentivizing pedicures. The weeks that have followed have not been so kind.
Feb. 6 my partner in crime at The Post had a sudden medical emergency, and on Feb. 15 God called him home. He was only 62 – the same age as my mother and only a few years my father’s senior.
It was shocking and devastating. He was a husband, a father, a grandfather, besides being a friend to many, including yours truly.
We didn’t always see eye to eye on everything. He was just as passionate (read stubborn) as I am and often stood his ground when I tried to sway his beliefs. We had different views of the community I report for and call a second home, but no matter how stubborn (passionate) he was, there were times I could tell his steadfastness gave a bit, and maybe mine did too. Those were our best moments, when we were the team we needed to be.
Over the two years we worked together, as is the theme in my office, we were more than just colleagues.
He was there with his dad wisdom when my ex-fiancé unceremoniously left me; he was constantly offering a familiar mix of sassy asides and appreciated compliments.
Though part of me knows it’s impossible, a little bit of me still expects to see him walk into the office, rest his elbows on the edge of my cubicle and say “Hey, you writing some shit” or to see him wave to me from the driver’s seat of a passing little red Ford truck or text me asking for a business contact’s phone number because he left the Post-It note I gave him at his desk.
But he won’t be out here “selling some shit” or caring for his Corvette or enjoying his new deck with his wife anymore. I’m still kind of in a state of disbelief, but that’s the new reality for so many whose he touched.
In the same week as Mr. Wilson’s unexpected incident, tragedy seemed to be a theme.
The University of Washington lost a student when a girl had an embolism and died at Drumheller Fountain; my alma mater had an active shooter scare, which had the potential to remove many a great mind of my generation from this earth; and a couple who had attended high school with my BFF Sierra and I were in a terrible accident. The young woman, a few years younger than me, died, and the man, who graduated a year before me, is still suffering from serious injuries.
I learned the news of the latter incident through a message from Sierra. She told me what happened, followed by:
“I just wanted to say again that I really love you and appreciate having you in my life.”
Sierra and I met as lifeguards back in 2010. Next year will mark a decade of friendship. Our Facebook-imposed (for lack of better personal recollection) friendiversary was Feb. 23.
I can’t, and don’t even want to attempt, to imagine my life without her in it.
We’ve enjoyed nine years now of impromptu hikes (mountain goating, we called it), shopping trips and adventurous photo shoots, as well as late-night conversations about any-and-everything while either “camping” at her family’s country home or sleeping under the stars in my 1996 Toyota Tacoma truck bed.
She on numerous occasions has dropped what she has going on to be there for me, finding whatever way she can to be there for me (even without a driver’s license) both virtually and physically.
She’s the exciting, vibrant spark there to cheer me up when I’m being my usual over-analytical, verging-on-cynical self.
Admittedly, I sometimes end up balancing her out as well, as the more organized mind to her exuberant spontaneity … but I still love her.
Though we are separated by almost an entire state and don’t see each other very often, she’s one of those friends who I can not see in a year and still interact with like no time has passed whatsoever.
Sierra Skye, thank you for nine years of friendship and I look forward to finding a fabulous way to celebrate 10 next year.
I appreciate every single thing you’ve brought to my life.