Steve

I'm trying to write this while the paint is still wet so to speak...

I thought I’d become accustomed—or seasoned—to the concept of loss. Friends, acquaintances, family members on distant and closer branches of the family lines, people younger than me, people who chose not to be here anymore. Most people experience this; I suppose it’s been my turn in recent years.

I found out about my friend Steve passing this evening. The news is still fresh as I type, and I don’t know what happened—nor am I going to pry. But what really surprised me is how much his passing has affected me, despite not having seen him for a long time.

Perhaps that sounds ridiculous or cold.

Steve wasn’t my best friend or someone I had known my entire life, but he was present for a lot of the ‘good bits.’ I got to know him through the ancient art of drinking, and that’s pretty much where our friendship lived—in pubs and occasionally clubs. He was a gifted bass player and had played in many Sheffield bands. We also shared an interest in musical technology, and he did a stint at Sheffield College looking after their music department’s equipment. He had been a carer for his mum long before I was. At that time, my parents were still in good health, and I suppose I was already burying my head in the sand, believing that would always be the case. He shared this role with, I believe, his sister. I didn’t envy him this task, but I never for even the slightest moment anticipated that I would be on the same road years later.

He was part of what felt like a cast-iron group of people that you could always find near the back door of The Washington on a Saturday night, smoking and drinking—regardless of the weather. He was only slightly older than the rest of us, and because our musical tastes were so different, we rarely ended the night in the same venues. But he was always at the Washy early on a Saturday night. He was quietly spoken, but his sense of humor could be very dry. He had a quick wit and a laconic turn of phrase that marked him as someone raised on British comedy above all else. He had cautionary tales of working in music (everyone who works in music has cautionary tales of working in music). However, he never quite left it alone.

Then COVID happened, and none of us could go out. My mum became increasingly ill, and when the world opened up again, I didn’t rush back to it. Consequently, I lost touch with everyone, really—apart from the odd text or social media interaction.

And yet, there’s something reassuring about knowing people are still around, even when you don’t see them for a long time. It’s naïve to think there will never come a day when they won’t be. We’ll all wake up tomorrow and walk forward, and the ones we lose will drift further and further into the past. I hate that thought, but it always comes to me when people go. It’s like whittling bits off your own history (which sounds selfish), and now a really bloody good time in my life feels incomplete.

Steve was great company. He wasn’t my best friend or my oldest, and there are many who knew him better. But he was part of some of my best times, and I’ll always remember him and miss him for that.