Alan

As we get older, it gets exceedingly difficult to make friends that create meaning in our lives. They allow us to let down our guard, share our deepest insecurities and our personal failures. There is no value judgement, no holier than thou advice — just a patient ear and the comfort of knowing that they have our back.

I lost one of those friends ten years ago to cancer, and that void still remains. Alan and I discovered the pleasures of sipping fine tequila, typically followed by Rohini’s cooking. Neither one particularly helpful to the waistline or the liver. We had very little in common. His idea of a nice weekend was riding his Harley and pitching a tent in the woods. Mine? Can you spell the RITZ?

Our common bond was driven by a  healthy competition to out do each other in the classroom. We pushed each other to hone our craft, and shared a passion for working with troubled youth. We volunteered our time, raised money, and followed our calling. During the final days of his life, he told me “don’t ever forget me”. How could I? The memory of our time together is quietly nestled somewhere in the inner chamber of my heart, and it has taken me a decade to even write about it. I think of him often, but rarely talk about him. Knowing him, he is probably smiling down on me.

Rest well my friend. Your memory will always be alive. Rest assured.