Labarb. That's all the introduction you need. Sometimes someone walks into your life unannounced and reminds you that you still have a lot to learn. That was Thom.
I had you my junior year for psychology. We had a student teacher that semester so I didn't really get to know you, but somehow I still did. You were writing a book at the time. Theodore. You would read us excerpts and it was just up my alley. I'd love to read it.
A man of culture who got tangled up in blue somehow.
Over the summer I went to see a close friend of yours, and you were there. Sitting back, sipping on a cool drink. Four years had past since I'd laid eyes on you. You didn't recognize me, but you wanted to.
I remember going to Marsh Road Diner at 2 AM to talk to you about Mary Wollstonecraft of all things. I chugged a Leinenkugel's before I left to ease my nerves. You brought champagne, and we drank mimosas illegally. You brought a book with you, but we didn't talk about literature or feminism.
We talked about you, your family, marital issues, current and past relationships, your parents. You loved to talk. You wore a tight leather jacket and insisted that you suffered from narcissism. You do.
After that night, I looked at you differently. I saw a man who was sad and frightened. Someone who had lost their footing but knew exactly where their next step would land.
And here you aren't. I'm so angry at you. I want to scream at you and tell you that you're selfish.
I feel pompous. I feel like I don't have the right to mourn you. You were so close with so many people and I was just a girl who asked for help with her writing. But I was there. And I listened.
I want to scream at myself for not knowing. I want to yell at the top of my lungs that it's somehow my fault, that this didn't have to happen.
I stayed up all night drinking Saturday. I texted and messaged a lot of people, inspired by inebriation. You weren't one of them. Why didn't I think of you? Why didn't I come to your aid when you needed someone? Why didn't you reach out?
Hundreds of people are mourning you today, Thom. Not that it's ever been a competition, but I've never seen my timeline so flooded with stories, regrets, inspired hearts. It's a testament to just how many lives you have touched.
They say that those who can't do, teach, but maybe it's that those who teach want to do too much, so instead of bearing the weight themselves, they create an army of philosophers, lovers, carers, scientists, historians.
Everything that you couldn't do in your short life lives on through the accomplishments of the people you built.
Speak softly and carry a big stick.
