Onion Street

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Some men are born to die. Some, like Bobby Friedman, are just so full of life that you can’t imagine death will ever touch them. Even as I sat in front of his coffin and his rabbi told story after story of Bobby’s mischievous spirit and seemingly boundless generosity, I couldn’t quite accept the fact of his death. Like any of us who knew Bobby, I assumed he would be eighteen forever. During the worst of my treatments, when all I wanted to do was surrender to death, I’d sometimes amuse myself by thinking of the eulogy Bobby would have delivered at my funeral. Now here I was at his.

“What are you smiling at, Dad?” Sarah leaned over and whispered.

Although death had been so much on my mind over the months since my diagnosis, I wasn’t sure I could explain my smile in a way she’d have understood it. I wasn’t sure I understood it completely. Instead of answering, I winked and put my finger across my lips. Shhhhh!

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