Markham fell. It was 10 stories. And then after a few horrible days, he was gone.
I still find myself missing him most days. I miss the person that I was when I was with him. He was so open to whatever you offered that you would start offering more. Things that you forgot you had. It was a good recipe for laughter or shared confidences or odd ideas, some of which would actually happen, because, hey, why not, fuck it, lets do it... how about when I get back from my buddy's garage? he's prepping for an art show, we're going to buzz-cut each others heads. why don't you come along? Mostly I'd say no, because that's what I do. Markham, you've got some interesting friends, I'd say. You're one of them, buddy, he'd shoot back.
One of our last conversations was late at night, driving home from an event. The roads were wet and streaked with crazy red and green reflections from street lights in the puddles. The first rains of the winter. This last year was a good one for him. He was riding an energetic and creative wave that he said he could feel vibrating up his back. I've felt something similar recently, and after many months of missing him I'm starting to realize that he gave me a thirst for something that's taken a while to understand, but it's making life more interesting. Why not, fuck it, lets do it.