In Memory of: The Knight of Wands
Born: Somewhere between a dare and a first-class ticket. Died: Last Tuesday, 3:47 PM, in a garage he no longer recognized.
It is with a heavy ledger and a slightly singed collar that we record the passing of the Knight of Wands, aged somewhere between twenty-nine and forever. The cause of death was not a single dramatic event, but a thousand small, unreturned favors. Specifically, a drill. Also a circular saw. A torque wrench. A ladder that was borrowed “for one weekend” in 2019 and never seen again.
The Knight of Wands died the way they lived: mid-gesture, keys in hand, promising to be back in ten minutes. The ten minutes lasted four years. The keys are still in the ignition of a car that no longer runs.
Survived by:
A calendar with no dates circled. A passport with three blank pages and a stamp from a country they don’t remember visiting. A group chat that has slowly become a support group for people who lent them things. A garage shelf with empty outlines where the tools used to sit—like chalk outlines at a crime scene, but for cordless impact drivers.
Survived by:
The idea of a road trip. The idea of a business venture. The idea of a renovation project that was going to be “so easy, just a weekend.” The idea of a fire escape plan, a compost bin, a sourdough starter that was going to change everything.
Survived by:
A partner who learned to say “no” too late. A landlord who learned to say “no” too early. A mechanic who learned to say “no” every single time.
Survived by:
The memory of a Tuesday afternoon in April when the Knight of Wands actually finished something—a bookshelf, a thing, a commitment—and everyone was so shocked they took a photo. The photo is blurry. The bookshelf is wobbly.
Predeceased by:
The Knight of Pentacles, who was going to help with the budget but gave up after the third spreadsheet. The Page of Cups, who was going to write the heartfelt apology but cried into the keyboard instead. The Queen of Swords, who was going to cut ties but kept getting distracted by how charming the Knight was when they said “I swear I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”
Predeceased by:
A promise to call. A promise to text. A promise to show up. A promise to pay for dinner “next time.” A promise to stay.
Predeceased by:
The moment when “I’m spontaneous” stopped being a personality trait and started being a liability. The moment when “I’m free-spirited” stopped being a compliment and started being a warning label. The moment when “I live in the present” became a euphemism for “I have no idea where I left your hedge trimmer.”
The Knight of Wands was a force of nature, which is to say: beautiful, unpredictable, and catastrophic to anything left unattended. They entered rooms like a match hitting dry grass. They left rooms like a fire that had already moved on to the next field. People loved them. People lent them things. People stopped lending them things. People stopped loving them, quietly, the way you stop loving a storm that keeps taking your roof off.
The warrant was issued, as warrants often are, not out of malice but out of exhaustion. The court did not want to see the Knight in handcuffs. The court wanted to see the drill. The court wanted to see the circular saw. The court wanted to see the ladder. The court wanted closure, and closure, for the court, looked like a tool chest with everything in its place.
But the Knight of Wands is gone. Not dead in the way of flesh and bone—they are probably in a parking lot somewhere, eating a gas station sandwich, about to call someone they haven’t spoken to in months. But dead in the way that matters: the death of the version of them that everyone believed in. The version that was going to come back. The version that was going to be different this time.
The funeral will be held at the intersection of “I’ll be there in five” and “I understand.” There will be no eulogy, because no one can agree on what to say. There will be no casket, because no one can find the keys to it. There will be a moment of silence, broken by a phone buzzing with a text from an unknown number: “Hey, sorry, quick question—do you have a reciprocating saw?”
The family has requested that, in lieu of flowers, you send a Venmo request for that thing you lent them in 2021. It will be ignored. But the request will be sent. And in that small, doomed gesture, we honor what the Knight of Wands taught us: that some debts are never settled, some tools are never returned, and some people are never gone—just unreachable, mid-gesture, keys in hand, promising to be back in ten minutes.
Rest in pieces, Knight. The drill is still missing.