If Dana were not on time, he was early. If he were not showing up, Dana called.

We were to get together, but it was not Dana calling. It was a beckon call to hightail it if I intended to say goodbye. My longtime friend was not there, though the machines said he was two-thirds. He would last two hours without the machines; only the doctors need confer to discuss with family the most dreaded of decisions.

Dana, a working man, was buried in a new blue suit. It seemed out of place, but it also seemed oddly appropriate. He lived contently and it showed on his face as I viewed him lying there; viewing him for the last time. I spoke there of the Dana I knew; the one who lived life on his own terms, but I get ahead of myself.

The family met with the doctors on Monday. His funeral would be Sunday. The plugs were pulled and Dana died.

I spoke at his funeral of the time Dana stopped by, fresh out of jail, and told me the cops would not have caught his hot rod Volkswagen had it not run out of gas. I told of how he grew from there to become a fine, hardworking man; one I was proud to call my friend. I told of how Stephanie's birth changed him from merely a fine man into the finest father I knew. I said that if Dana were not on time, he was early, and, if he were not showing up, Dana would call.

I spoke there of the Dana I knew; the one who lived life on his own terms. Also, how appropriate it was that we were gathered there that following Saturday after his scheduled funeral, as Dana had lived death on his own terms also.

I also told about the beckon call I received instead of getting together as we had discussed six or seven months before he died, and that I knew that burden is mine; for, if Dana were not on time, he either was early or he called.

And I cried.

Learn more about this author, Tom Koecke.
Click here to send author comments or questions.

---

Add your voice

Know something about Memoirs: Death of a friend?
We want to hear your view. Write now!