30 1/2

It feels like I can swing by your parents house and find a fire in the basement and you, drink in hand, ready to shoot the shit, as always.  Like I might run into you next week when I go home for Christmas, or we might make plans to meet at one of our old haunts and catch up.

When you died three years ago on this date, I was worried that I would move on.  I was afraid I would forget you.  That you and our friendship would become a distant memory. 

I never realized the exact opposite would be true.   

I am still able to picture you as clear as always:  the way your wiry blonde hair sprouted from your skull, much like your wild ideas and crazy stories.  Your clear blue eyes, light as the sky.  The way your two front teeth fought for top billing in your mouth, that was always agape, ready for some wise crack or story of a forgotten time, or a juicy piece of gossip.

Thinking of you every day makes me sad, yes, but forgetting would be far worse.

So you may have ended three years hence, but you stay going strong 30 1/2 years later, in spirit.  Always.