By Lucas Judd
Dear Jerry,
I hope I can call you that, but since you were almost my Godfather I think it might be okay. Almost is a word that stings me and I know stings my mother even more. When she does talk about you, which is quite often it’s only of the good times, of the memories she had with you to trust you with my life if hers ever ended.
She talks about you, and she talks about the Corral and she talks about how you loved it. She talks about the work you did for everyone there, and how you could make just about everyone smile. She wants me to know that you would have loved me.
She tells me you would be proud of me and who I am, and I really do hope that’s true because I am proud of who you are. I am proud to call you my almost Godfather, the man I almost knew. As much as I would like to say that I feel I know you, I don’t.
I have only small glimpses of your life, through a few photos, a few stories and a sentiment of how good you were. I like to think we would have bonded, I like to think I would have gone to my first pride with you instead of on my own, I like to think that my mother would be able to talk to you without a sad out of look in her eyes.
But I can’t, because none of those things happened, not now and not ever. I wish things had been different, I wish you would have made it, I wish I would have been able to meet you. So close and yet so far. 17 days before my birthday, you left this world, and behind you a trail of people who would never stop missing you.
Maybe it’s wishful thinking but part of me likes to think a part of you is in me now, that I carry you with me wherever I go, even without knowing you. But even if I don’t, I imagine many others do.
In another life,
Luke
