I wrote about David in the tiny hours of this morning. It really was a sucky piece of over-the-top prose. I pitched it. Among all the things I learned from him, high on that list is simplicity. I have a long way to go if I’m to master it.
Remember the story I told at David’s memorial service last October? The first time we made dinner together at his house, he handed me a tiny foil-wrapped package that contained a tiny chunk of leftover baked chicken. I didn’t want to offend him, but I couldn’t help asking, “So, do you think this will be enough?” And his immediate response, without a smidgeon of judgment or shaming, was this: “Oh, I guess I always figure that whatever I have is enough.”
He lived his too-short life living simply. What started as necessity became a life value. He was a steward of the earth by every definition.
I miss his so-soft voice, his gentleness, his spectacular smile, his hunger for knowledge that he fed each day, his essential goodness. Those things and his quiet footfalls that sometimes brought us abruptly together at a corner in the house, eliciting a small scream from me. He’d smile and say something like, “Hi. I live here.” And then he’d hold me for a moment.
One year ago today, he died.
One year ago today, those of us who loved him lost an extraordinary man who kept such a low profile, few ever understood that about him.
Some say hearts heal. Maybe so.