A few years ago, I wrote a column about my oldest friends, and how back in those days in the South, we didn’t tell other men we loved them. Well, one of those friends passed away two weeks ago, and his death has me reflecting on how tenuous our hold on life is, and how small we are compared with the powers outside our control.
It also reminded me that of all my friends, Kevin would not want a mournful sendoff but rather some kind of celebration with good music, close friends, and lots of laughs.
The irony by which our days unfold often goes unnoticed — until it doesn’t. Kevin, the best man at my wedding in 1988, had already moved out West by the time Lori and I celebrated our nuptials. But he came back for the ceremony and took on co-best man duties with my father.
