It was in March of this year that Kent's oldest friend passed away. He was someone I had also known and hung around with when we were all in our 20s and 30s. When I told Kent of Joe's passing, he wrote a eulogy and asked me to read it at the "celebration of life" that was held for Joe. Here it is in part:
I write these words while the news of Joe's passing is still sizzling white-hot in my brain. What do you say when you have lost your best friend? That was Joe to me, an integral part of my life for half a century. We have not seen much of each other in recent years, a result of distance and circumstance. But friendship--real friendship--doesn't go away. It stands like a well-built edifice, impervious to foul weather and natural disaster. And so it is with Joe, still my oldest and best friend, even though he is no longer available to keep up his end of the bargain.
That's how it always was with us. We could go for six months without seeing each other and then when we did, it was as if no time at all had passed, There was nothing worn away in the fabric of our relationship; no weak spots; no ruts in the road.
I feel at the moment of this writing as though I have suffered a spiritual amputation. Something that was a part of me for most of my life has been cut away. But as it goes with amputations, it still feels as though it is there. So, Joe, in case you're hanging in the air today, listening to what we all have to say about you, let me leave you with the dying words of Cyrano de Bergerac: "Yes, all my laurels you have riven away and all my roses. Yet, in spite of you, there is one crown I bear away with me. And tonight, when I enter before God, my salute shall sweep all the stars away from the blue threshold. One thing--without stain--unspotted from the world--in spite of doom, mine own, and that is...my white plume."
Goodnight, Joe.
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