One Christmas, Joey gave me a bookend.
Just one bookend.
A single bookend, without its mate.
He wasn’t a kid, far from it.
Joey wasn’t materialistic, but he was generous. He gifted me things like poetry and letters, CD mixtapes, a bouquet on my birthday trip with John to Big Sur, and a scarf, to name a few. These were among the closest to anything traditional. Often, he gave what some might call unique gifts, like a bottle of hot sauce. Sometimes I’d look around to see if there was a hidden camera—I wondered if I was being punked.
Another time, he handed me a single stack of wood-colored Sticky Notes. The edges looked like rough tree bark. (They were outdoorsy; they weren’t the substandard canary yellow.) Joey proved to be serious every time. His gifts were heartfelt. Besides sneaking a look for a hidden camera, I was gracious, and he said, You’re welcome.
I have Joey’s lone bookend on my nightstand, which supports my daily reading. It’s been there since he presented it to me.
Joey’s time on earth—his “book,” his story—has ended. And that’s mostly been excruciating. That is, until I remember that the other bookend exists.
It’s just somewhere else.
That bookend is more of a book-beginning—and I will see the complete set one day, a world away.
Today marks three years since Joey left us.