This one time, Geoff and I went on a retreat together to the Grand Canyon. We got to the cliff’s edge, and Geoff got this very serious look on his face. He said he had intended on buying this land with the profits from his upcoming book and that it was his righteous calling. I told him I don’t think you can buy the land here. He frowned and whispered under his breath that he “will find some way to keep them safe,” whoever that is.

I remember setting up shop in a local restaurant to get some writing done. It was a slow, rainy day. Like usual, I ordered a mocha and a croissant to keep my energy up and the words flowing. Geoff came by and sat with me, ordering his own hot chocolate with peppermint and ginger swirl (he always swore by it). When I finally finished the chapter I was working on, he called the waiter over. “She deserves a treat for putting up with me all afternoon. So… separate checks, please!”

As a latecomer to the Crooked Trees, I did not have the tremendous pleasure of meeting Geoff. I do, however, feel like I know him. His presence in our group remains as palpable as it is entertaining, and I will be forever grateful that he stumbled into friendship with one of our founding members over a drunken game of table tennis. Without Geoff, there would be no Crooked Trees, and without the Crooked Trees, where would I be? I owe it all to you, my ill-fated, would-have-been comrade.

The smell of the delicious home cooked meals that Geoff made for us in the kitchen of our shared apartment. Chief among the incredible mix was a recipe from his dad, a meatloaf. The recipe card was marked up with Geoff’s notes to improve the passed down loaf. Geoff was never satisfied with following the rules or the way things were meant to be. He always thought he could make it better.

There was a squealing coming from Geoff’s bedroom at an ungodly hour one morning. Feeling pretty crabby before my coffee, I stumbled my way out of bed and to his door with a few choice curses ready to go. But when he opened the door with an actual teacup piglet cradled in his arms, I forgot all of that.

“The lease said no cats or dogs…it never said anything about pigs,” Geoff reasoned. It was always a riot to see the two of them walking down the street—Honeydew trotting along on her little pink lead at the heels of Geoff’s grimy, red All-Stars. I miss seeing those two every day.

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet Geoff, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua Geoff. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat Geoff.

Go to hell Geoff.

There was a time where I sat on a squeaky leather barstool in a New Orlean’s jazz club where Geoff moonlit as a bartender. He stood on the other side of the bar, cleaning a whiskey glass with an old ratty rag, listening to my jaded mouth complaining about how life was nothing more than a series of endless torments meant to drive me mad. He slapped me, and my jaw dropped, silence pouring from my mouth like one of Geoff’s generous fingers of whiskey. He stepped out from behind the bar, walked up to the stage, and sat down at the old baby grand and started playing the most beautiful jazz piano I ever heard.

When he was finished, he sat down next to me and said, “Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.” Then he reached over the bar, grabbed a bottle, and we drank the night away.

I’ll never forget that, Geoff. RIP my friend.