[This is a guest piece from Serra Sewitch-Posey, reprinted from her Substack channel with permission. Copyright 2025 Serra Sewitch-Posey.]
A local artist I admire did a post about a good friend of hers who just died. He was not an old man. But he was suddenly and inexplicably riddled with tumors. She shared a video of him strutting and dancing down the sidewalk toward the camera, lavender shirt and white jeans, wild curly hair and beard--totally expressive and free, moving with unselfconscious joy.
I find his Instagram account and see pictures of his cool, weird sculptural art; him smiling with his smiling wife; both of them wearing bike helmets. There are videos of him making experimental music with keyboards and xylophones,then playing a thick purple carrot carved into a flute-like instrument. There's a photo of his baby looking up sweetly and holding one of her feet. So many pictures of unexplainable, flamboyant images, bits of the world that he found beautiful.
I find his wife's account and there's all this sweetness. Him and his kid, holding hands and walking silly down the street. Him swinging the kid around in a milk crate.
One photo that stops my heart for a moment was of him and his child hugging, the kid's face hidden and dad's face tragic, eyes closed in pain and love. Trying to hold on and knowing he can't hold on forever...he knows he has so little time left.
Then there's his wife's updates on his health, with an image of their hands holding tight on the hospital bed.
He was a real person.
I mean, a real person. Apparently, really living. He seems like someone who couldn't stop himself from creating, couldn't fail to emit love and brilliance, had to move wildly and weirdly. Maybe he somehow knew a long time ago that his time would be cut short.
He will be missed and mourned by so many.
Even, somehow, by me.