On Silver Sharpies and Secret Spots

I walked around with a silver Sharpie in my pocket for days. Around the stage, around the auditorium, around the catwalk. It took time and nerve and tears to finally write Cooper’s name in our new space, but it is done.

The spring musical—our first production in the new performing arts center—wrapped a week ago. I’ve had time to process; during production, I only had time to feel.

Man, did I feel.

The last time we put together a musical at school, at our former stage, was 2020. Cooper was alive. That musical was Covid-canceled and Coop helped us tear down the set months after the show should’ve happened. The next year, Covid was still running the show, so . . . no show. Last year, we performed off campus. This year, though, we came home. Home to a new, beautiful, state-of-the-art home. This year, the missing him was raw once more.

It’s been more than two and a half years; I thought I was done with firsts. I was wrong.

This first—this first show in our new space—cried out his absence. He would’ve (quietly) loved this adventure. He would’ve been part of the late night curmudgeon crew, helping solve problems, doing what needed done. He would’ve been there. He should’ve been there. I cussed and cried and questioned his absence. He really should’ve been there.

Since his death, I’ve tried to honor Cooper; this musical was no different. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t come up with a way to bring Coop into the process. All I could manage to do was miss him—miss him terribly.

Gradually, I eased him into the space. For some reason, I’ve had his senior bio in my school desk drawer since 2010. I don’t have Logan’s or Cassidy’s; maybe they took theirs. Coop never cared about it. I’ve also hung onto a light gel that has his handwriting. That sucker took my breath away when I pulled it out of the crate of gels a year after his death. I kept it. That’s what I do; I keep pieces of him. One day during show week, I found both the bio and the gel in my classroom and gave them a new home in the light booth. Coop would be mortified, but the light booth seems a good home for light guy memorabilia. Having something of him brings me a tiny bit of peace. Even tiny bits of peace are good when that’s all you know.

One of my favorite things about our old space was finding Coop’s name on a beam high above the gym of cafe-gym-atorium fame. I’ll never again rub my thumb across that scrawl; the last time I did, Coop was alive, living at home. I had yet to see (or maybe accept) any signs of decline. Psychosis was just a word. Suicide wasn’t even possible. Life was pretty good.

New space. No signature. No Cooper.

For weeks, I planned to sign his name somewhere in the performing arts center. Somewhere I would and could see it whenever I chose. Somewhere a little bit secret and little bit obvious. Somewhere quiet and Cooper-ish. On the last day of our musical, I finally took the silver Sharpie from my pocket, signed his name, and added my own words. It helped. I cried, but it helped.

Still, these actions aren’t what really brought Coop along for the musical ride. What brought him along was saying his name—not just thinking it, but saying it—around other people who love and miss him, especially during a show. What brought him along was doing the right thing, regardless of rules. What brought him along was quietly, steadily, sincerely cheering on the kids who worked so hard. What brought him along was noticing the camera-shy students standing off to the side as we sang “Piano Man” before each performance. What brought him along was letting go of some control. What brought him along was doing what I needed to do to get through—sometimes sharing him with others, sometimes keeping him to myself.

Maybe this show doesn’t count as a “first.” I haven’t read the rules on “firsts.” It sure felt like a first, but I think it’s more a sign of life moving on around me while I’m trying to figure out how the hell to move on—or move at all—after Cooper’s death. If moving on means forgetting, then forget moving on. I’ve stopped expecting to return to Tonya of Before; I know Tonya of After is so different—so changed. But as I try to keep pace with life and the living, I’m carrying an invisible boulder lodged somewhere deep inside. Keeping pace is hard. Doing new things that should involve Cooper is hard. In that way, every day is another first.

So, I walked around with a silver Sharpie in my pocket. Eventually, I used it. I broke some rules for a very good reason (mind your business on that one). I bolstered others when I could. Those actions all honored Cooper.

I missed him, honestly, openly, and often. I shared stories with safe friends. We laughed and we cried. We honored him.