“Could be worse.”
I arrived late. I didn’t want to miss much of the party, but you find with certain crowds arriving late is always the right time to show up. I seem to surround myself with individuals that indeed start things late; though, I personally always insist on being punctual. I tend to punctually plan showing up late just to fit in and avoid awkward exchanges. Full swinging parties are far more relieving to arrive to than the types where you’re forced to push a party into swinging. On this occasion I did not plan a late arrival, but I came as soon as I could with no forethought to ‘timing it right.’
I walked in the doors after my swift I.D. check, perhaps the doorman could see the party I was with from the low expression on my face. I wasn’t there to drink.
A few swift hellos and a finger point in the right direction led me to her.
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In the kitchen Taylor kept our light shining. He had a knack for it. You could always hear him when he talked, and you could always tell he had a good heart. When the kitchen was backed up, or the dishes piled high, or the customers found a new kind of hate in their hearts… you could always look in Taylor’s direction for comfort. He would tilt his head a bit, and gesture his hand out as if offering something better, crack that warm smile and say “Could be worse.” It was our joke. No matter how fucked up things could get, it could be worse. He was right. And he kept us sane in his own way. Taylor and Kyle actually went out and got “Could be worse,” tattoos on the inside of their fingers.
The day I arrived late to the party was the day a few of our friends went out and got the same tattoo, “Could be worse,” on the same spot Taylor had. I loved that they did that. It is a perfect leftover of Taylor.
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I walked into the darker side of the bar, with the live music playing, and the patrons staring one direction and trying not to dance. I walked to the back corner because I was told there were posters to sign for Taylor, for memories and goodbyes. I walked over, took up a pen, and wrote my own thank you to him. I truly was thankful for the man. I got up and took a look around, and then I saw her.
I loved when she had come into the restaurant. She was as full of life as Taylor was, and just as big hearted so it seemed. There was no question of the largeness of love she had for her son.
And she caught my eye. I walked over, and she continued the cry she was already in. I gave her the biggest hug I could. I wanted her to know I love her, that I loved Taylor. And as we retracted from the hug, she was tearing still from her soft blue mother’s eyes, that I won’t ever be able to drive out of my mind… she looked up at me and held up her right hand into an ‘E’ shape to let me read, “Could be worse.” I wanted to just hold on to her forever. It is hard not to have your heart broken when you see that. But these are the moments we never get back. And though they break your heart till it hurts, they are beautiful in their own way. A sad moment to be cherished.
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We drank enough that night. Any passing life that desires pity at a memorial is possibly not a life worth pitying. Any passing life that desires a party at a memorial is a life worth celebrating. If you knew Taylor, you’d know it was fitting for us to throw his memorial at a bar. He lived hard and died hard. Though he was young, he had a very full life, and more stories crossing more topics than most people ever experience. I say with a completely unbiased opinion that he had a very full life for such a short one. We drank to our friend, to our family member from our shit little restaurant. We reconnected with people we hadn’t seen, we got too loud, smoked too much, laughed too hard, and left after 2am. And though we enjoyed a life that night, as thoroughly as we could, I will never be able to forget the mother that lost her son, and the words of his which she embraced, “Could be worse.”
