A Commemoration Letter

A Commemoration Letter
For the space between the notes.​​

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Dear Esmond,

 

I’m devastated. It feels like yesterday at brunch where I’d decided my scarf-as-a-headdress look was ‘it’ for the summer—because what could be more glamorous than some forgotten 80s actress (or rather, 'actor') stepping off a plane? You didn’t question it. You just laughed and handed me another marked-up draft. You printed the latest version of the book—who knows which round we were on—and pulled it out, full of handwritten notes. You said you’d type them up later, which I knew meant another round of care. Most people wouldn’t entertain a project with ten identities. You did—over and over again. For every delay, you were patiently yet eagerly waiting. I thought for sure you’d drop the project when I took over a year off of it after my mom passed, but when I emailed you later, you sent fresh edits. Picked up the beat with enthusiasm. Held space for the in-between. You wanted to hone things that extended well beyond the book, because you wanted the world to hear the message and listen.

 

Freshly turning 26, I told you I published my first article in USA Today. You eagerly asked, ‘Can you send me the link? I looked it up but couldn’t find it!’ That one was published in print, but I was floored that an agent with so much to do was so invested that he was interested in reading something so unimpressive as a short article that he went to go look for it himself. 

 

In Copenhagen, I struck up a conversation with a stranger over tea. He handed me his book. I opened the cover—your name. I snapped a picture and sent it to you, grinning at the odds. Of all the places, of all the people, of all the circumstances. Some things are too rare to chalk up to happenstance.

 

We explored all the forms the book could take, but you weren’t in a rush. You loved the process. You helped me shape something I couldn’t fully articulate yet—a combination of nonfiction, identity, business, philosophy—it didn’t matter. You saw what I meant, even before I did.

 

I thought our work together would span decades and mediums after the first piece we landed on. I wanted everything to be perfect, cadenced, but you told me last month “the launch of my podcast will take some time to build, and then it will really take off” and you wanted to set a monthly recurring meeting to track it with me. The podcast was just the launchpad for the concept itself. A concept we would infinitely mold, across different pieces. I told a friend about you Wednesday of last week, and texted you on Thursday, because I wanted to start our monthly recurring in May. I was finally ready to release it… I think. I’m devastated by the ‘almost-ness’. But beyond that, you were a beacon — and you can never be replaced.

 

I wrote this in my diary today (to you): 

 

“That you could carve your own path.
That you don’t have to trade authenticity for success.

That the world really is just a play – 

and you can show up in different costumes for every act, 

simply for the joy of it. 

 

Instead of performing for the audience, 

find joy in the audience’s reaction to your performance.

Catch them off guard.

Make it amusing.

Your role isn’t to entertain–

it’s to find entertainment in entertaining. 

 

We don’t exist to perform.

We exist to enjoy the performance.

To shape the story.

To dress the set.

To cast the lineup.

To dance across the stage.”

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You were my mirror in this.

 

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You embodied this, entirely.

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I thought my idea was crazy— until you told me it was brilliant.

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You helped shape it, hone it, protect it. You were always on a quest for discovery.

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The world will never be the same.

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And my world will never be the same.

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I’m heartbroken for those who’ll never experience you. And grateful for the time you invested in those who can carry an echo of you forward.

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In music, it’s the space between the notes that gives depth. You understood that. 

You gave ideas room to breathe, so they could land at the right cadence. You were invested in the future you believed in—a future you helped shape through the power of language.

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You didn’t just understand the role we each play—you understood the role of those roles. And you used yours to shape reality.

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You were a curator of language, a conductor of stories, a guardian of the written word— disguised as a book agent.

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Some people are sightings—rare, once in a lifetime. You were one. A portal to wonder, a doorway to possibility. The world needed you longer. But for those who see the universe clearly, the presence of wonder doesn’t disappear after the experience.

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The space between the notes deepens the music— but I wish this song were longer.

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I—and so many others—will miss creating with you.

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Contrary to what many may believe, I try to avoid attention—and I wouldn’t share something unless it felt meaningful or important to me. At the risk of sounding crazy, I had a vivid dream Friday and Saturday night that I couldn’t quite make sense of. I figured I’d just taken too much melatonin. It was set in another decade. I had just addressed a nation—somewhere far from home.

 

As I exited stage left, an older man waited for me in the wings. He hadn’t appeared before in the dream, but I recognized him by his energy: a senior advisor. Someone I learned from. Someone I shadowed.

 

He hugged me—proudly. Then his tone shifted, serious.

“I won’t be coming with you on the rest of your journey.”

 

I looked at him—“What do you mean?”

“I won’t make it back.”

 

I laughed gently, an air of levity in my tone, deflecting. “But you’re here,” I said, gesturing for us to walk together offstage. It felt like we should be celebrating. His words felt impossible.

 

But his tone didn’t soften. The air thickened. His voice slowed, a level more serious.

“I’m not going to make it back.”

“How do you know?” I asked. Stubborn – willful, even – even in my dreams.

“I got a message I won’t make it back on the return.”

 

And I knew. This was a hug of celebration, yes. But more – it was a hug goodbye.

I woke up after that.

 

I rarely dream. It startled me enough that I asked ChatGPT on Sunday morning if I had reason to worry. We chalked it up to melatonin and 3 hours of REM sleep.

 

My last handwritten note Monday morning: “Esmond / chat this week”. After hearing the news Monday… maybe it’s wishful thinking. Maybe it was an adieu.

 

I’ll miss you for the rest of this part of my journey... Among the many things you taught me, you reminded me that words shape the world.

 

– Morgan

April 16th, 2025

To the song that most closely mirrored my emotions—“Wind Song,” by Einaudi.