ode to doug

a bright light extinguished.

one of the most bizarre feelings in the world, having something that felt so certain and grounded ripped away from you.

the last time I heard his voice was the afternoon after a big evening out. he’d come around to pick up his bike and debrief on the evening, I assume. I’d woken up to the sound of his boisterous laugh and momentarily considered crawling out of bed to greet him and join in on the debriefing.

I ultimately decided the hangover I was nursing needed closer attention, and thus fell back to sleep.

I wish I’d taken in those moments with him.

I will forever regret not taking the 5 minutes to grab some water or go to the bathroom, say “hey, thank you for the excellent evening”, and return to my quarters.

doug was an incredible human being, and one that I truly wish I had more time to get to know better.

his stories, his laugh, his charismatic intensity, his love.

he was such a powerful being.

I remember thinking on the morning of that hangover “hey, it’s alright, I’ll see him soon. I’ll see him next time.”

and that’s what hurts the most.

doug, being the older and wiser man that he was, bestowed advice onto me between beers, nose and normal.

he told me his stories. he talked about the parts of me he saw in himself. he advised me on the things he wish he’d done better. he remarked on his regrets, consolidated in our shared bits of pain, excitedly lifted my ego where it needed lifting.

I didn’t know him well enough, and in the face of others’ history and mourning it seems daunting and almost silly to feel so shattered and rocked by the news.

but when I’d call or text while late on a bender, alone and in need of company, so often would he reply.

when I’d walk into an outing where I stood out a little, so fast would he welcome me.

I’ll remember his strong embrace. I’ll remember his timeless words. I’ll remember him as the man that was quickest to shake my hand and warm up to my occasionally off-putting demeanour.

and I’ll miss him.