Ron’s birthday was last Saturday, he would’ve been 28. Instead he’s forever an imprint on our lives. My high school friends click with me in a great way. Who else would road trip to Canada in a ’91 Dodge Spirit?

We saw Ron the night before he died. He invited us to his house and hosted like he normally would, giving us chocolate and blaming it on his mom. He seemed happy, content, reflective on his past. He wasn’t in a hurry or desired to do anything but be together.

Ron sent a text the day he passed away. He reached out as a friend, saying he would be there for me when I needed him. He told me he understood depression, how he found healing and understanding.

Ron and I weren’t bffs, unfortunately I can’t say I remember a time when I acted as a great friend to him. But he would text me every other day, everyday. He’d say something funny, an inside joke, a song lyric. Something that brightened up my life or his. He was a regular, constant part of my life. I have a handful of friends that reach out. Ron always asked when I’d be in Chicago next. When I was coming back. When could we get together.

One of the strangest, greatest, and more difficult things about losing Ron is how he shows back up. I’m constantly reminded of things I want to text him about. Things we would laugh about or share. Things I don’t have anyone else to talk to about. Facebook has the “on this day,” feature, showing pictures, posts and comments from the past. Ron shows up all the time. He was constantly making jokes, posting funny videos or pictures. He was such a part of my life.

The last thing he did for me was to show compassion, concern, connection. I try to find acceptance with this loss. Part of that might be to embody Ron’s ability to be more than just an old friend, but a good friend.


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