Dear Covy
I lost my brilliant friend and collaborator Covy Holland this week. I’m trying to work through a strange and difficult grief process that’s only beginning, so I’ve decided to write him a letter. If you knew Covy, I hope reading it can help you a bit out too. If you didn’t know Covy, I’m really sorry that you didn’t get to meet him, because he was the absolute best, and I hope you get to know him a bit through this letter. Trigger Warning: allusion to suicide.
Hello my friend,
I want to start this letter by telling you that I am so unbelievably sad that you have left us. You were such a joy to so many and were so, so loved. You leave this Earth with all of us proud of you and so much better to have known you.
I remember meeting you for the first time. When was that? 8, 9, even 10 years ago?? You were so excited that Shannon and I had come to Calgary to run workshops and have fun with all of you. You struck me immediately as such an engaged learner. You were so excited to pick up what Shannon and I were laying down. You had a youthful energy about you and a puckish spryness. I only remembered this week after hearing of your death that we're the same age. You always struck me as a bit younger because you always had so much energy.
What followed was one of the truly great pleasures of my life: getting to see you grow as an improviser and find your voice. You were always playful, but it was amazing to see your work get deeper, sometimes serious, sometimes wonderfully surreal.
You truly did the work, Covy, and we are all so much better for it. I'll miss your willingness to help me develop new shows, like APT 33, and your desire to "go there" whenever I was in town to try new things. I'll miss the weird onstage bits: the ones that didn't go so well and those that killed, like when you wore what felt like infinite shirts onstage to take them off one by one only to have the last shirt be one with holes for the nipples. I don't know if I'll ever really understand why that bit worked as well as it did, but it had something to do with your execution, for sure.
It was wonderful to see you grow so much during the time I knew you, Covy. I am so honored you and Stephen asked me to direct you for those several days in the summer of 2017. Now that you're gone, I cherish the time I spent with you and Stephen in that small rehearsal room, thinking of new ideas and ways to play together.
You were so generous with your time, input, energy, and love for us. We all know this. You were one of my biggest financial supporters when I used to fundraise for Story Pirates. Because of you, so many kids got to experience our creative writing and performance programs who otherwise would not have. This is part of your legacy, and I don't want it to be forgotten.
Remember that wonderful day when you and Cassie came to see me do a Story Pirates show in NYC? After, we walked several miles down Manhattan, laughing and chattering the entire way. It is such a happy memory for me. You just made so many people happy. It's so much about how you chose to live your life. We ended that day getting ice cream and Chinatown Ice Cream Factory. I went there yesterday and ate some ice cream and thought about you. I am in no way surprised that ice cream made its way into some of the stories that your family and friends told at your memorial today.
The day before I heard the terrible that you left us, a bird flew into the bakery where I work. At first, it casually flew in when I was at the front of the store, perched on our front counter, gave me a look, and flew right out. But it came back several hours later and caused a big fuss, which felt very much like you heightening an improv scene in a funny and strange way, and it took a lot of effort for us to shoo it out of the store. There was an element to it that was a little risky and part of it that was fun. Sort of like being on stage with you. Knowing what I know now about the connection that you had to nature, I'd like to believe that was you coming to visit me one last time and say goodbye.
I'm heartbroken that you're gone, Covy. Of course, there's no way to truly understand why you had to leave all of us now. I hope there's an aspect of you that's lighter now and free of what was ailing you. You have left all of us to carry the weight of your absence. It's a challenge that we are up for, but one that I don't look forward to. There are heart-shaped holes in all of the lapels of our jackets where there once were fanciful felt hearts instead. We're all going to have to learn how to keep going, day by day, in this new reality where the holes in our lapels are always there.
I will try to think of you and celebrate your spirit in small and big ways. You made such a huge impact, Covy. I truly believe that one day we'll meet again and there we'll be: in a room, with a stage and some folding chairs, and there will be much laughter and play. But until then, I'll miss you, my friend. And I'll remember you.












