almost okay

My Dear Lyzako,

I find myself somewhat at a loss for words today, the subject of this missive a difficult one for me to broach even under the best and funniest of circumstances. So, rather than easing you into it, I'll just say it plainly right up front: A friend of mine died last week.

Not someone you know, mind you, and someone I looked to mainly as a business associate, for sure. But our relationship wasn't based solely on business; Rick was also a person with whom I had shared many humorous moments over coffee or lunch during the course of the past four years while we helped each other limp forward as self-employed individuals in this increasingly hostile economic climate.

In fact, just the week prior to his passing Rick had been here at the house, where we brainstormed over one of his new schemes and drank a pot of strong coffee before he treated me to a lunch of grape leaves and hummus at the new Anita's Kitchen in Ferndalia. I had never seen him more upbeat and positive.

Last Tuesday afternoon, after having just spoken to him via phone several times the day before, I retrieved the voice mail from my cell phone containing the bad news. It was as if a door had closed and locked tight, suddenly knowing that I would never have another conversation with Rick - about work or otherwise. No more coffee, and not even one more lunch.

It's the way of all flesh, I know. And to make too much of it would be as wrong as ignoring his passing altogether. But because of circumstances (he was a mere fifty-five years old) and the suddenness, it has left me stunned and contemplating my own life even after a full week of easing back to reality.

I think you would have liked Rick. I know you would have loved his memorial.

It was standing room only while family and friends each took turns telling wonderfully comical stories about Rick's past, each anecdote funnier than the previous one. Two hours passed while the crowded room swelled alternately with tears and belly laughs and we all got to know Rick a little better. Especially me.

I had only known Rick for a relatively short period of time, and when I began to hear the tales of his crazed partying as a young man, his deep love of sports that included an insane allegiance to the University of Michigan football program among other things - well, I was almost jealous of all the others for having known him for so many years.

We heard from his sister, his brother, his niece (Rick had no children of his own), his wife and several devoted friends. A member of the current line-up of the Four Tops (also a friend of the family) dedicated a song to Rick, sang it a cappella as he stood at the podium, his voice breaking on occasion, tears streaming down the cheeks of every last person in the room by the time the final note had reverberated to silence.

It was the best funeral I have ever attended.

Which brings me to my point: I'm counting on a similarly upbeat eulogy from you, my friend, when my time comes. I know, I know. It's a lot of pressure and there's no guaranteeing that you will outlast me. But should you, I am hoping you have enough stories at the ready to crack up the people in attendance at my service as often as they did at Rick's.

You see, I want mine to be at least the second best funeral I ever attend. You can even sing if you like.

Cheers and Warm Regards,
Marty Sherman

PS: If there's any saving grace to all of this, the man passed about as sweetly as anyone can hope for. After hitting the sack early last Monday, his heart gave out in the middle of the night. He was home. In his own bed. No hospitals, no tubes, no sad ebbing of life over days or weeks or months or years. Who could ask for better?