Eulogy

Part Six.

I was afraid of him.

Not because I thought he would beat me up. Because he had the artistic talent I aspired to and the intellect I wanted and the boldness I never felt I deserved.

I never understood why he liked my friendship, so I was constantly afraid of losing it. I knew I could make him laugh, but that only ever made me feel like a joke. I respected him so deeply that hanging around him was a constant, self-imposed challenge to be worthy of his company. To earn the right to hear his opinions, to deserve to debate the merits of science against the merits of art. He would respect your opposing point of view the way one respects a charging bull; powerful, but stupid, and could not be suffered to run around unchecked.

Once he started college he became an electrical engineer, and for years I was heartbroken. His drawings outclassed the sketches in any of the RPG books we would pore over. His writings held me captivated more than any published fiction I could purchase. I was afraid that he wasn’t living the life that would have led him to his best satisfaction, and I was saddened because my favorite artist had stopped producing art.

I finally challenged him about this life decision a handful of years ago. As he always did, he listened to everything I had to say, and considered deeply before responding. In the end I learned I was wrong. He had done right by himself. He wasn’t always successful and he wasn’t always happy, but he had walked the path that was right by him, secure in the knowledge that he would have made the same major decisions over again if he’d been given the option.

For many years I referred to Kevin as my oldest friend. More recently I would say, “On the day I got married there were eight people in the room. Kevin was one of them.” The first time I planned to get married I knew I wanted him as my Best Man. The second time, too. When I wed my Lady Love, my Charm, he was there as I’d always hoped he would be. Later I would realize that year had also seen the twentieth anniversary of the day I met him.

Whenever I’m trying to craft a project, eventually I hear his voice: “Sometimes you have to shoot the engineer and build the fucking thing.” The wisdom of da Vinci filtered through blunt, southern American charm.

He could cook, too.

Sometimes we wouldn’t speak for years, but he would cross my mind every day of my life. Jokes we shared, games we played, arguments we had, music we liked, movies we quoted, pranks we pulled on each other, all the mutual experiences ricochet and reverberate and make sympathetic imprints onto every corner of my life, from my kitchen counter to my bookshelf; from my computer chair to my driver’s seat.

The only people I’ve known longer, I’m related to.

In my mind, Kevin will always live in the present tense. His legacy and our relationship will shape the rest of my life, much the way it has since my earliest memories of him. I’ll lie down every night assured that if I am the best version of myself, it was because he inspired me to do so.

I miss him.