*          *          *

…getting drunk at your apartment on New Year’s Eve from liqueur filled chocolates.  You gave me Gatorade and made me drink an entire glass of water before I passed out.  You took care of me sweetly, but firmly, like a friend should.  I want to be that good a friend.

 

…your homemade mudslides.  I stand by my assessment.

 

…the Popsicle Incident.  Thanks for getting me out of trouble when I was pulled over for Driving With Popsicle.  Thanks for watching out for me.

 

…how you would come to all my plays, even the weird ones (were there any others, in those days?), even though I know it’s not really your idea of a good time.  Thanks for supporting me, even though we were always so different.

 

…driving all over town with you in search of Twinkies.  Finally finding them, and eating them in your car in a parking lot while listening to dance music.  Always up for an adventure, that’s probably how you ended up the King of Epic Stories.

 

…a certain facebook status:  “Sick.  Send soup.”  And you actually did.  You hand-delivered soup to my door, charmed my family, and stayed to chat.  Who even does that?  Only you.

 

…visiting you after your big surgery last year.  You were so out of it, you kept showing me the graphic photos of your pacemaker procedure, so proud.  And then, you’d forget you already had, and show them to me again.  Thanks for letting me get to know you, inside and out.  Er, yeah, thanks.

 

…and then, at your big Labor Day Recovery Party, how you flitted from one group of friends to the next, filling glasses with your special collection of flavoured wines and charming everyone, the belle of the ball.  Surrounded by the people who loved you, running around your backyard, children and dogs underfoot, dancing on tables and regaling us with your famous stories.  That was so you.  That’s my favourite memory of all.  I always want to remember you, face flushed, stammering with excitement, arm around my shoulders, looking forward to the future.