Hey, Paul

Hey, Paul.

I’ve had more than a few difficult assignments. This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever written. On one hand, you got the best birthday gift ever. In paradise, reunited with your parents and sister. But, on the other, I have to be honest, man. It stinks for us left behind.

You were more than a friend. More than an uncle. You were our spiritual guide to adventure. Through you, we learned to fully savor both hunt and quarry. Bosom buddies, dashing in breathless pursuit of the best. A great book. A romp through New York City on a clear blue day. An impossible guitar solo. Prime steak, ‘done to a turn.’ Sharon Zheng’s legendary duck soup. A seamless magic trick. A sexy car. A perfectly proportioned Manhattan. A chef’s knife sharp enough to shave. A blazing hot grill, transforming leg of lamb into songs of angels. ‘Crema’ foam, floating like a cloud on a shot of espresso. A masterfully crafted film script. Comedic timing that lands big. Black holes, eating galaxies, a billion light years away. Food so spicy, it makes your head spin.

You knew everything about everything. But you never threw it in our faces. You didn’t preach or pontificate. Through you, we gained a deeper and more meaningful understanding of it all. The subtle and obvious. The loud and quiet. The good and bad and great and crazy everything in between. All of it, the minute-by-minute escapade that makes life on this crazy-ass planet sublime.

Those of us who knew you best knew it was never about the stuff—the food, the wine, the music. We knew better. It was about the experience. You were our Sherpa, blazing paths to real treasure—exploring and discovering, arms locked with people you loved.

What else matters?

You shared your insatiable curiosity and passionate enthusiasm with everyone around you. And you did it with inimitable style. You were a class act who taught us to savor the moment and live for today, because tomorrow’s a pipe dream. And every day, from now on, will have a Paul-shaped hole that nobody else could possibly fill.

It’s not going to be easy. Saying you’ll be missed is like saying the universe is roomy. We’re not sad, we’re gutted.

To use your oft-repeated phrase, having you as a part of our family was an Amazing Thing. It started with a fender bender, that day I crashed my car into yours. A suitably comic way to embark on a journey that could only be described as epic. Fortunately, I knew it was, beyond all doubt. I never took you for granted. We never met anybody like you and are unlikely to ever meet another. That’s not OK but it’s not the end of the world. I know, someday, we’ll meet again.

Soon, you’d say. I’d argue against it being too soon. But, when that day comes and If Saint Peter lets me in, I hope he gives me your number. It’s a call I can’t wait to make, to hear your voice again, asking with genuine interest, “Hey, Sal. What are you doing?”

=S

friendsloss