Folded Thought of the Day:


There are times I wish I had a voice that could tear the heart out of 
the wind.  And when I sang, I could make people feel things they've 
never felt before.  And other times, I wish I was a world-renowned 
cellist or pianist or flamenco guitarist -- speaking words with my 
instrument that could never be uttered.  Then I might be able to 
pay you a proper farewell my friend.  But all I have are my poor 
little words...and my memory of you.

Nobody walked like you.  That silly, bad-boy gait that we all tried 
to mimic when we wanted to poke fun your way -- which you always took 
in stride, letting it all roll off your back and giving us a false 
sense of security...leaving us wide open and ill-prepared for your 
perfectly timed comeback.  When you walked into a room, laughs 
were never far behind.  

And that smile.  I don't even want to get started on that.  The way 
it would light up everything it got near.  The kind of genuine gift 
we all wish we could possess. 

You were always in charge.  The master computer programmer.  Writing 
those extra lines of code to appease my whims.  Walking into your 
office and fighting your horrible taste in music.  (What was that 
stuff anyway?)  You never complained about the long hours or the 
work load or much of anything for that matter.

You were so nice.  And so friendly.  Why is that such a rare trait?

What were you thinking?  Taking that walk alone.  You goofball.  
Not that it would have mattered, but someone like you should not 
have exited with noone there to feel the immediate loss.  A pain 
which would shortly be felt by so many who weren't there.  I can 
only imagine how the people that you touched through the years 
responded to the news.  I don't envy them -- as it was months 
before it reached my door and I know what I am feeling.  But you 
can't reach your arm across time to catch a falling friend.  All 
you can do is remember.  And do your best to honor the memory.

So I might just drop by the old "local" some time this weekend, 
the site of many a drunken after-work evening.  And I'll listen 
for the echo of your laughter -- which always seemed to grow  
sillier and more frequent with your drink-count (you never could 
hold your liquor).  And I might try to scribble some more poor 
words on a napkin to try to capture your special brilliance.  And 
I'll fail miserably.  But you'll understand.  And as closing time 
approaches, I'll perch myself at the corner of bar...hoping to 
catch a glimpse of that bad-boy walk through the closing door.


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