This One's For You, Gordon

Last week, I lost a friend.

His name was Gordon.

It still doesn’t feel real writing that. There’s something about working with someone that makes them more than just a coworker. You don’t just share tasks—you share time, space, inside jokes, and if you’re lucky, the kind of connection that sticks with you. Gordon was one of those people. The kind who makes the workplace feel less like a job and more like a community.

He was 30 years older than me, but you would never know it. Sitting with Gordon in the lunchroom felt like sitting with someone you went to college with. We talked about everything—life, people, inappropriate jokes and the absurdities of the day. He didn’t talk down to anyone. He didn’t carry himself like he had seen more life than the rest of us, even though he had. He just... met you where you were. With a smile. With a joke. With that laugh.

God, that laugh.

It was loud, full, and totally unfiltered. You could hear it from across the building, echoing down the hallways. Sometimes it made you laugh even if you didn’t hear the joke. It had that kind of effect. Just hearing Gordon laugh could change the entire mood of the day.

But now, in the quiet, I find myself wondering what was behind that laughter. Because I think—even the happiest souls sometimes carry hidden weight, and he was always more than what we saw on the surface.Maybe the pain he didn’t share. Maybe things we didn’t see. I wish I had asked more or paid closer attention. But that’s one of the hardest parts about grief—it hands you these questions you can't ever get answers to.

Gordon and I hadn’t been on the same schedule for a while. Different shifts, different lunch breaks. But I kept thinking, “Soon.” Soon, we’ll be back on the same schedule. Soon, we’ll sit down at the table again. Soon, I’ll get to hear that laugh in real time. I was genuinely looking forward to that.

But now I know—that shift won’t come.

Actually, I didn’t fully realize it until I stepped inside the building. As soon as I got there, it hit me. Hard.

The building looked the same, but everything felt off. The air felt heavier. That something, or rather someone, was missing. And then came the flashbacks. All at once.

Him laughing down the hallway. That voice carrying from one end to the other. The way he would always walk into the breakroom, already joking about the heat. He always needed iced water. It didn’t matter what time of year it was—he would need Ice. He would always have a Slurpee or a chilled soft drink in hand.

And those little portable fans? He carried them everywhere. The man was fully equipped—he had one in his pocket, one clipped on, and even a USB fan he plugged into his phone. Wherever he sat, he needed airflow. That was just Gordon.

But Gordon’s presence hasn’t really gone anywhere.

It’s still here—in the little things. Like when someone tells a joke to break the silence, or when I hear a loud laugh that, for a second, sounds just like his. It’s in the way we look out for each other more now.

And definitely in the way some of us still remember those “Gordon lessons” on how to make women feel special—his version of graceful, harmless flirting. He had a way of saying the right thing with charm, never crossing a line, just enough to make someone smile and feel seen. He made it an art form.

He’s not physically here, but honestly, he still is. In the way we carry those moments, those laughs, and those lessons, without even realizing it.

I used to think the work schedule mattered. I always preferred to have people like Gordon on the shift because when he was around, work didn’t feel like work. The day moved faster. The mood was lighter. Even the tough moments didn’t seem so heavy. He had this way of making everything feel a little more manageable, just by being himself. You didn’t have to force a conversation with him. You didn’t have to pretend. He made the place feel human.

But now, I realize—morning shift, mid shift, graveyard—it doesn’t matter. Gordon’s presence moves through every corner of this place, no matter what time it is. He has become part of the atmosphere. Part of the story.

And I’ll carry him with me. In the way I listen. In the way, I laugh louder. In the way I try to make someone’s day just a little bit lighter.

Gordon wasn’t just someone I worked with. He was a reminder that kindness doesn’t have an age, laughter doesn’t need a reason, and presence doesn’t end with absence.

Gordon — I will save your last message forever.

You’re not on the schedule anymore, my friend.

But you’ll always be here.

Rest in Peace, my friend😭.