We went to your funeral. We got there by the skin of our teeth. Drew was late picking us up from the airport, and then we wore black suits to a shitty diner like a scene Tarantino could have written. We brought your casket into the funeral hall to “Magic” by Coldplay. Drew told us how much you hated this song, and the thought of playing it for you made us laugh so hard, we couldn’t help ourselves. Everyone else laughed, too.
Pat and Drew stood at the lectern and talked about the kind of person you were: someone who loved to have control, hated authority, and constantly pushed against limitation. Someone who never did anything half-assed. You believed above all in fun and good feelings. You had a primal love of things that were repugnant to most. You were also profoundly hedonistic. I once saw you consume a chunk of roquefort that made my eyes water.
At the dive bar after the service, your mom told me you had been identified as a gifted child when you were 7, which I didn’t know, although it made a lot of sense. Somehow in your short 33 years, you brought your immeasurable talent and unique personality to the Canadian military, to Toronto’s restaurant industry, and to teaching yoga to the city’s most beautiful hipsters. To our devastation, you also became addicted to opiates. It began with a yoga injury and a prescription, and it turned into the only thing that ever dominated you. You had tried to laugh it off in the beginning, remember? You knew how gross it was. “I would never inject,” you said. I was mad at you then. I was terrified.
I understand that when you realized you couldn’t control your drug use anymore, you took matters into your own hands. You did it so that your friends and family wouldn’t have to watch you suffer. Even your parents understand. They’re amazing, by the way.
You hurt us when you left. I doubt I’m the only one you infuriated more than once. But you also welcomed me into your home just months after we met. When Pat and I fell in love, you were genuinely excited for us. You could have hated me so easily if you’d wanted to. But you always chose love first, which is why you were better than most people.
Pat is a different person today than he was last week. He really thought you would still be here when we were all old. I’m mad at you for breaking his heart, but I hope to forgive you someday. You still helped to make him the man he is, and I love him more than anything. And on the bright side, we still have a lifetime’s worth of stories where you are the instigator, the agitator, the hero. And stories don’t die.
We started with a song that you hated, but we ended with a song that you loved.
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