A little over three years ago, I lost my best friend to leukemia.
I think of Dave tonight, because I just spent the last ten minutes playing with one of his old foils, which we used for Midnight Drunken Sidewalk Fencing. No, really. At some point after the third or fifth bottle of wine, we’d go outside and show off for our girlfriends by engaging in a little after dinner en garde. A moral victory was when I lost three touches to two — Dave had serious training; I just had some half-remembered lessons from summer camp.
(For the record, Midnight Drunken Sidewalk Fencing is not how I got that quarter moon scar between my eyes. That’s another Christmas story, involving my old pickup truck, radio buddy Tim Farley, some brandy laced with coffee, a redwood tree, and. . . well, I’ll save the rest for another Friday.)
Maybe it’s because of the cheap red wine I opened during Will & Grace. Maybe it’s because the foil is right here next to my desk. Maybe it’s because Dave is the guy who taught me enough about wine, food, and romance to win a woman like my bride, who I just tucked into bed.
Whatever it is, right now, I really miss you, my brother.