ELECTRICAL TAPE.

January 9, 2007

I wrote this one on a day that started like any other—until word spread that one of our own was gone. You always feel it in your gut before you even hear the name. That shift in the air. The long faces. And then, the tape. That damn strip of black electrical tape we all carry, tucked in our gear or lockers, waiting for the worst kind of news. It’s tradition, it’s honor, it’s grief rolled into something silent and symbolic. I remember putting that tape across my patch with hands that didn’t feel like mine. Then I sat down later that night and wrote—not to make sense of the loss, because you never really can—but to remember what it calls us back to: the things we forget chasing overtime and broken calls. Family. Time. Mortality. That post wasn’t just about death. It was about living, while we still get the chance.