Danny

Man.

Danny died.

The guy on the motorized scooter at the health center.

I saw the card coming around, and thought it was a good luck letter for one of the staffers heading off for his OT certification.

So that’s how I found out.

“Man, he was young.”

“Yeah.”

And I scribbled and scribbled and fussed at the plastic pen that wouldn’t write on the back of the card, because the inside of the card was all full up, and cards aren’t made to be written on the back, but everyone loved Danny and misses him and wrote a hundred names that crowded the page, and that’s one of the other things that Death does, knocking the glass out of your hand and laughing in your face because you try to control smaller and smaller things and can’t and then you step on a shard and yowl.

(A man can’t even write his own name sometimes.)

I finally found a place on the inside of the card and put: DJ Josh Urban.

I left the start of the scribble on the back, and that said it all.

Then we all sang a hymn.