A friend died this week. Not uncommon for those of us in our seventies. However, this friend’s death hit me hard. You see I was to have breakfast with him this morning. Went to text him yesterday but first opened my Facebook and there it was. His obituary. So, I called another high school friend. One that is well wired in my rural community. He confirmed it.

My voice cracked as I talked to him. I don’t like to let my emotions out to other folks, especially guys. That’s the way I was brought up, you see. But I couldn’t help it. This friend was the kind of guy that we picked up right where we left off from the last visit. Hell, he knew more about me than I remembered. And always had that smile. I have few real friends. Brothers really. That’s intentional because I choose them carefully and with intent. My brothers always make me feel grateful and leave me “feeling gooder than good.”

Just last week, we caught up at our Butler High School reunion. You probably have had someone like him. A firm handshake, a big hug, let’s do breakfast. And when we did “do breakfast” we talked with one another, we looked into each other’s eyes and listened to one another. Really listened. A lost art.

Every day on Facebook he would write “Good morning.” I always chuckled. Somedays I irreverently responded back a personal message, “Gotta love the smell of napalm or the Tree House bakery in the morning!”

It was gonna be a biscuit and gravy kind of breakfast at Heaton’s.

Rest in peace Ronnie. Keep me a seat up there.