One of my oldest friends died this week. So old that the only photos I have of us are printed and tucked away in a box of memories I revisit every few years. I hadn’t talked to him in a long minute because of details I barely remember now. What I do remember is he was in my world at a time when we all wore our demons on our sleeves and it was cool to be messy, because we all were. As we grew up, most of our group learned how to tuck those demons away like old photos, at least around the people we needed to do so. He never learned how to do that. Which was perhaps part of the problem. But the beautiful thing is he also made sure I never felt I had to do that either. He loved me and all my messy parts and all my mistakes and all the awkward phases and all my demons, which I felt comfortable enough to let him see. I wish I could have offered him the same in return. Rest well, RHT.