To Adam

Adam, you were the one with brooding eyes and a Cheshire smile. You were the first to introduce me to Dürer and Rembrandt, your heroes. You would often sit with your head in your hand, eyebrows furrowed, in a pose no doubt inspired by Melencolia’s angel, lost in the abysses of thought. And then something would come over you. A jolt of energy—almost a spasm. It would run through your body as you lifted your head, your hand combing through a tangle of hair, and then a fountain of words would spring forth from your mouth, a river gushing with fullness, a thousand ideas glimmering in the light of the sun.

Adam—what a perfect name for you who was curious of everything, who greeted everything with the wonder rightfully owed to it as a piece of existence made in the image of God. Sometimes, sitting in the dark of the afterschool life drawing class we took together at Art League, we would struggle to suppress spontaneous fits of laughter, riled up by the strange cacophony of sounds that would emanate from our professor, Mr. Jennings’ speakers, Bob Dylan and the Talking Heads slowly giving way to pan flutes and African drum beats. It wasn’t out of snobbishness that we laughed but from an innocent joy struck by absurdity. You taught me to love the world for what it is because what it is, is the love we have for it. Your imagination covers the cosmos.

My sadness now is selfish, filled with a regret I know you wouldn’t recognize. But this pain is a small price to pay for your friendship, which changed my life in innumerable, incalculable ways. You walked through the world a sower. I am a part of you, as is everyone graced by your spirit. And so your work goes on. Your life continues to live. There is still an awful lot left to do. Sic semper artificibus.

I love you, Adam, my friend.