I went to Christian McBride’s tribute to Herbie Hancock last night and it reminded me of you, Malik. I miss the sound of your trumpet.
I know there were some good times before we became strangers and I wish I could remember them better, like when we used to serenade mom in the kitchen while she cooked.
After the concert tonight, I went to the CoHo and ordered the Satin Doll. It is the only food I ever eat there, mostly because of the name; Satin Doll the song was a favorite of yours. Today would have been your 26th birthday.
This was the sign I was looking for, the sign that I should go ahead with my affaire, my Champagne Affaire, money and mess be damned. I was searching for inspiration for a party and I found this poem. It blows my mind:
I think it is safe to say we drank too much.
Must I apologize for the volume in my slobber?
Must I apologize for the best dance moves ever?
Booze is my tuition to clown college.
I swung at your purse.
It was staring at me.
We swerved home on black laughter.
bleeding from forgettable boxing.
I asked you to sleep in the shape of a trench
so that I might know shelter.
- Derick Brown, “Born in the year of the butterfly knife”