Each day I walk past the cubicle you were in. I think of you every day, but some days, and those days are increasing, I don't think of you each time I walk by.
It's not the first space you were in, but at least the third here. For diplomacy that of course seems stupid now, but merely dopey then, I convinced you to move from the previous spot to this one.
I miss your lamentations about the latest groaner emails. Your laughter at times with sunshine, other time with rue, once in a while with malice. And some times with victory and happiness, or a mix of it all.
We packed your things the first day we were all back. Mournful, needing breaks. Lots of laughter. Lots of wit, even in your workplace residue.
Even after two workplace piques of protest where you hauled a lot of the clutter in your workplace away, your workplace still had a lot of clutter. Not from compulsion of needing every damn thing in a series of things, but what you thought was funny, object designs you admired. Same as your brain. Packed with memories and trivia and delight and revulsion at the aesthetics of things.
We each each nabbed a few things of yours to hold and be reminded, or things that simply made us laugh. Now that space is blah and boring, and someday will be filled with someone else. Better to have known and lost. And the loss is getting easier, but it's still not fair.