My friend, Jim, died the other day.
In his sleep.
He was 44.
My friends aren't supposed to be dying yet.
I only knew him for a couple of years, but he'll be with me forever.
My first impressions of Jim could not have been more wrong - and as time passed and we shared stories, and laughter, and sadness, and anger, and friends, and quite a bit of tequila, I grew to admire and adore my neighbor, and was happier and happier about the future that lay in store for our neighborhood, with Jim at the core.
But now things are different.
We're all feeling a bit lost.
But on Saturday, a full week after his death, after the memorial services, and the days of shock and bewilderment, we came together, whether on purpose or not, as we always have here on our street, with food and drink, and children playing together, and stories and laughter, and somehow enjoyed ourselves again.
Even though it was a little bit emptier, a little less loud, and the tequila wasn't there.
And we included him in our stories, and in our laughter.
Even though the Harley didn't come out for a ride.
And we ate and we drank, and we toasted to Jim.
Even though his West Virginian drawl and mutter wasn't heard.
We felt just a little bit back to normal.
Even though we know it won't be, can't be exactly the same again.
We all love you, Jim. You'll always be a part of our neighborhood. We'll all keep an extra set of eyes out for your kids, and your wife. We'll all smile whenever we hear a Harley, or see a 'vette, or line up the Cuervo. We'll feel you at every ball game, whether here on the block or out on the field.
So long, soldier. Ride strong, brother. Save the other half for me, friend. We'll catch up again sometime...
