Spent Money Can't Be Stolen

On life well-lived.

Every week (or day, if it’s a particularly tough week), someone who was a presence in my life dies. I’m sixty, so I guess it’s something I might as well get used to. Musicians, writers, actors, scientists, friends, acquaintances. Last week, out of curiosity (and a determination to distract myself from what I should’ve been doing), I googled my best friend from 8th and 9th grade, when I lived in western Pennsylvania. I hadn’t been in contact with Dave since I moved to Connecticut after 9th grade, but I’ve thought about him often, wondering what kind of life that wild, funny, charismatic kid had put together for himself.

Turns out, he died ten years ago, “after a long illness.” That’s all I could find out. I learned recently that another one of my closest friends from high school, Chip, had died mysteriously a few years ago, at 58. He was a surgeon, but even with his medical expertise and connections, nobody seems to know what killed him.

Dave. Chip. My dad. Prince. Tom Petty. Anthony Bourdain.

I feel bad for all of them, but not that bad.