A Flash, Then Gone

It’s crazy to think it’s already been a year.

A whole year since he died.

Since the car crash.

Since the world tilted slightly and something beautiful fell out.

It doesn’t feel like a year. It feels like yesterday. Or maybe it feels like forever ago. Time gets weird when someone disappears like that. Not gradually. Not with warning. But all at once. Like a flash of light in a dark room. You see something incredible, something you didn’t even know was there. And then it’s gone. And all you're left with is the memory of the light. And the darkness it leaves behind.

I didn’t know him that long.

I don’t have a backlog of stories. I don’t have wise quotes or inside jokes from years of friendship.

But I have this hole. This very real, very sharp absence in my chest that I still don’t know how to explain.

He was just a good guy.

A really good guy.

And somehow that feels so inadequate to say. Like the words themselves are too small, too clumsy. He was so much more than “kind” or “smart” or “thoughtful.” Though he was all of those things, too.

He was a validator. That’s a word that keeps coming up for me. A validator. Not in some cheesy, self-help kind of way. He just… saw people. Heard them. Let them be who they were.

I remember one time, a few of us were hanging out, and I started spiraling into an insecurity I had. The specifics don’t really matter. The usual stuff. Self-doubt and fear. Some of the guys jumped in, tried to talk me out of it. “Nah, come on. You? What are you talking about?” The typical reflex. But he - he held up his hands. Gently. Like he was physically stopping the energy in the room. And he said, “No, that’s his. Let him have it. It’s okay.”

It was the first time I felt accepted in my insecurity instead of despite it.

That’s what he did.

He made you feel like you were okay. Like your brokenness didn’t need to be fixed before you were worthy of love.

Like you didn’t have to earn your place in the room. You just had to show up.

He was like that with everyone. He didn’t argue your experience. He didn’t try to talk you out of your reality. He listened. He looked you in the eye with those wide, open, curious eyes and let you speak your truth. Even if he disagreed with it. And then maybe - sometimes - he’d come back and challenge you. Lovingly. Fiercely. With that sharp mind of his. But first he gave your voice room to breathe.

And he was so smart.

Not the show-offy, look-how-much-I-know kind of smart. The real kind. The kind that makes you feel smarter just being around it. The kind that made you want to learn, to think more deeply, to question everything. He was a rebbe. Not the kind we grew up with. A different kind. The kind we should have had.

And he loved his kids. I mean, really loved them. He found a way to bring them up in every conversation. You could hear it in his voice. The pride when he talked about his daughters. The ache when he mentioned the boys. That love was always there, right on the surface. He never hid it.

I think maybe that’s what made him so special.

He didn’t hide his tenderness.

He didn’t armor up the way so many of us do.

He was real.

And now he’s gone.

And I still can’t wrap my head around it.

I keep wishing I had called more. Reached out more. Held on tighter while I had the chance. But that’s grief, right? The regrets come easy. The words don’t.

I wish I had better stories.

I wish I had better words.

But maybe all I can offer is this attempt. These fragments. This love. This ache.

He added a whole new dimension to my reality. And now that he’s gone, that dimension feels quieter.

Dimmer.

Incomplete.

I lost a good friend.

And the world lost someone irreplaceable.

You had to be there.

You really did.

Dedicated to Moshe Fessel

March 6, 1975 – April 2, 2024

You were so loved.

You still are.