I Will Live To Be 115

They say only the good die young. I am inclined to agree; therefore, I will live to be 115.

We met at camp. We were fourteen (born in the same year, but he was actually six months older, his 46th birthday would have been Sunday, February 9th). Looking back on it I don’t know how our friendship really began; it seems to have simply always been. We hit it off very quickly and were not merely fast friends, we were best friends.

Now this doesn’t mean we always got along; like brothers we sometimes fought, but unlike brothers we always forgave. I can honestly say this is one thing I have missed so much about him: quick and complete forgiveness. It’s not that nothing was remembered, it just wasn’t remembered well. I have enjoyed other friendships in life (I truly consider my wife of nearly 22 years my actual best friend ever). But it is important—at least I think it’s important—for a man to have another man as his best friend. And I miss that.

I know when he died a part of me (deep within) died too. I can’t explain it with words, I explain it best with the tears that flow freely from me eyes when I hear a song that reminds me of him, or just some silly something happens. There have only been a couple times when I literally tried calling him, realizing as I dialed that he could not answer.

I know he’d laugh at me for being such a slobbering dummy, but I would like to think he’d miss me if our places were reversed.

It’s not like we talked all the time; as friends we didn’t need to (we sometimes would go a couple months without one word being exchanged). But whenever we finally came around to calling or writing or talking face-to-face, we picked up where we left off. And he was always there for me, as I tried to be there for him.

It’s been a little more than four years, but sometimes it feels a lot longer, and sometimes it feels like it happened just yesterday: reminders of him are everywhere if I choose to stop and look. Pictures in my office, an original drawing, Diet Dew.

We don’t get over the tragic losses, we just try to get through them.

I am thankful he is a part of my life; yes, I miss him dearly; and yes, I gauge other friendships by the one he and I enjoyed. There is always the hope another unique relationship will present itself. And I imagine at times that—if and when we see one another again in heaven—he will ask me what took so long. And we will pick up right where we left off.