Reflection of Disconsolation

"I find myself wondering about humanity. Their attitude to my sister's gift is so strange. Why do they fear the sunless lands? It is as natural to die as it is to be born. But they fear her. Dread her. Feebly they attempt to placate her. They do not love her."
--Dream, reflecting on his sister
Taken from Neil Gaiman's Sandman #8, The Sound of Her Wings.

There is a phrase that was originally Greek but got translated into Latin in the early part of the fifteenth century. De mortuis nil nisi bonum (dicendum est) is a phrase that, literally translated, means "Of the dead, speak nothing but what is good." Originally, it was meant to ward off vengeful spirits, angry that you were defaming them after they had died. In modern parlance, we tend to apply it toward saying only good things about a person when they've died, remembering that which made us happy and trying to either ignore or forget what made us sad or angry or any other negative thoughts. It's a phrase that could definitely be applied to this past summer as we sort of let slide accusations of child molestation and deadly drunk driving accidents.

In the context of my friend Eric, who was tragically taken from us on Tuesday morning when a car struck him while he crossed the street to get to work, it is a phrase that is somewhat accurate. If I were to say only what was good of Eric, here is what I would say:

Everything.

Of course, when you think of someone who was tragically taken from you, someone you loved and cared for and whom you befriended, it's easy to say "he was such a nice guy" or "everyone loved him." In this case, it was very true.

Eric was one of those unique individuals who, no matter what he said, would make me smile. I could walk into the store and find him, he could look up at me, and say "Fuck you, ugly!" and I'd still smile. Of course, he would never do that. He always had a kind word or a quirky joke or an off-beat pop-culture reference to toss in your direction, and one that would, invariably, make me smirk and chortle at the somewhat obscure reference he had just dropped.

But, the street went two ways. I could make an obscure cult fiction or cult film reference and Eric would either smile and offer a small, genuine laugh or shake his head--still smiling--and tell me "that was terrible." He was someone whom I sought out in the store, someone whom, if I knew he was there, I would stop to say hi to, no matter how badly my kids were bothering me to go to the children's section or how quickly I needed to get something to my wife. I'd stop and give him a couple seconds, and he would return me the favor.

Moreso than just being a friend, he was a good human being. He was the silent engineer who crawled through the belly of life, making sure the cogs were oiled, the gears were lubed, and that the mechanics were in good working order. I'm sure at times he was exhausted of all he did, of all he was asked to do, but he never complained. He loved to help others. I'm sure that, if you asked it, he would have willingly given you the shirt off his back.

Well, maybe not his awesome Venture Brothers shirt with the Monarch on it. I only know this because I tried to get him to give it to me. I was unsuccessful in my attempt to fleece him of a treasured pop cultural garment.

To know Eric was to like him, and while he was single and had no children, the store at which he worked was his family--or, at least, they thought of him as a part of their family. In the wake of his passing, stunned folks reflected on how much he had meant to them. To some, he was a best buddy, to others, it was like losing a brother or a son. For all of us, we lost a true friend.

While I sit here, hammering out the emotion that has welled within me for the past two days, one key stroke at a time, I feel that these words, these letters I've tried to arrange into a pretty, moving, emotional eulogy only serve as a disservice. No simple words can capture what he meant to his friends, family, co-workers; you would have had to have known him, to have met him, to truly understand and appreciate what a tragic loss we have endured.

And yet, I have completed what I set out to do. While I've finally released the pent up emotion that has darkened my skies since yesterday morning--perhaps a selfish gesture in and of itself--Eric is no longer a nameless victim residing on the crawl at the bottom of the screen during the local news report. He is now identified, not only in name, but for what he was: a friend. A true, honest, kind-hearted friend who would do anything for you (except give you his Monarch t-shirt) and smile while he was doing it. And to let him--someone--know that he will be missed by me and all the others who had the good fortune to have had their lives touched and enriched by his presence.

Good bye, my friend. Your time upon this world was tragically short, your time with us terribly abbreviated. But I am thankful I had the opportunity to know you.

Anyway: I'm not blessed or merciful. I'm just me. I've got a job to do and I do it. Listen: even as we're talking, I'm there for old and young, innocent and guilty, those who die together and those who die alone. I'm in cars and boats and planes, in hospitals and forests and abattoirs. For some folks death is a release and for others death is an abomination, a terrible thing. But in the end, I'm there for all of them.
--Death, discussing how different people see her
Taken from Neil Gaiman's Sandman #20: "Façade"

I realize it's kind of silly to toss in the quotation by Death from a work of fiction, but for some reason, it's strangely consoling to me to think that this hip rock 'n roll chick was there with Eric when he died, consoling him some and taking him onto the next life.