Too Little, Too Much

To die at forty-five is to have been robbed. Too little time on this earth and too much left undone. I have lost another friend to a deadly cancer - a young man with a sweet smile, many gifts, friends too numerous to count, and a family who loved him dearly. He was an artist in every sense of the word, talented and generous, optimistic and brave, giving and grateful. His death is one more reminder that God's gifts are transient.

I saw him play several times yet for some reason I have no pictures of him. I waited on him often but can't remember what we talked about. Before he became ill, I ran into him all the time and he would give me a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek or wave to me across a room full of people. We shared a love of photography and music and I knew how much he loved his travels to Rome and how he had fallen in love with the old city. He spent a great deal of time out of the country and I often wouldn't see him for months at a time then unexpectedly would read that he was scheduled to perform at a bar or a benefit. He always drew a crowd. A local photographer took the last picture I ever saw of him, a stark, stunning, black and white shot. He was achingly thin, terribly frail looking, clearly very ill, but with a little help he climbed onto a stool and sang. He was almost too weak to hold the guitar and his voice was painful to listen to but he sang until the pain forced him off stage. He was dying but he wouldn't give up.

I read of his death in this morning's paper, at home with his family in the small Louisiana town where he had been born. Short of a miracle, there had never been any hope of recovery for his type of cancer, a fact which some hoped gave him a measure of peace. He used his time as best he could, knowing that each day mattered and was precious, that each waking moment was fragile and fleeting. He had too little time and left too much undone but he was here and was loved.