By Michael Judge
Dear Etheridge,
I can still hear your cracked baritone booming, feel your words and rhythms living, your humor, grief, love, and regret tearing through the room. I was 24; you were 59, just three years older than I am now. It was a clear autumn night, the kind that …
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to The First Person with Michael Judge to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.