Drizzle Tahini on My Grave
Today I went for a jog. I was not attempting to seize the day or anything; rather, it was due to our friend's passing. When someone dies, they get to make you do whatever they want. If they ask you to take their ashes on an Alaskan cruise, you do it. If they ask you to run four miles across the Brooklyn Bridge to Biggie’s childhood home, you say ‘yes’.
This particular passing was devastating because of how young, talented, and revered this friend of ours was. An entire community of people showed up for him, wearing shirts, pumping music, and singing his praises.
I hadn’t run a mile without stopping in over two years, but when his wife, Kelly invited me personally, I told her I’d be there.
Of course, I also RSVPed for Jason, as I wasn't about to herniate a disc without him doing the same. But for some reason, he wriggled out of the commitment with some bullshit excuse about needing to drive our son to soccer camp on Randall’s island.
Instead, I made Caroline, my twenty-six year-old assistant, who I’m molding into a mini-me, join me. I figured if I embarrassed myself or accidentally fell off the bridge, it would at least make for a decent video she could post on Tik Tok.
Within minutes of joining Jammal’s family and friends, I started tearing up and forgot all about the running. My legs moved without me as our pack made its way over the wooden plank bridge to Brooklyn. There was a slight breeze in the air, and the sun was shining brightly. The weather was so idilic, it felt almost scripted. Maybe it was.
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