Picture this: A nearly 300 pound, 15 year old kid riding his bike with no hands while carrying a box filled with donuts. Suddenly, he loses balance and crashes into a pile of rocks. Bloodied and bruised, he emerges from the sea of boulders; limps to the twisted heap of metal once known as his bicycle and exclaims, "my donuts, my donuts!"
That is how I was introduced to the best friend I have ever known. He was the fat kid more concerned with his donuts than the blood running down his arms and legs or his broken bicycle.
1985 was a great year. It's the year, I met him.
I think about him all the time.
We don't talk anymore. I will take the blame. I suppose, I say too much, express too many opinions, judge too often and sabotage too many good things.
Last night, his sister in law posted his picture online. There he was; a little gray, overweight but still larger than life.
Larger than life. That's him.
I suppose we all have that friend. The indescribable, quirky friend whom we credit with so many of our own accomplishments and attributes.
The last time we spoke was two years ago. We spoke for hours. Nothing changed. Our bond is/was unbreakable.
He is the man responsible indirectly for me meeting the love of the life. I am the man indirectly responsible for his marriage.
In the annals of my life, it will be written that he was my best friend.
I think sometimes we throw that term around carelessly. We crown certain people our best friend when, in reality, they are merely our favorite friend. In this case, he is/was the BEST friend I have ever had.
I could speak about him for days. His laugh. His kindness. His compassion.
His love.
We don't talk anymore. It's a long and complicated story.
I saw him last night. If pictures accurately tell a story, then he looks well. Happy. Still in love.
I suppose that's all I really need to know.
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