Ahmad always had a knack for classy dressing — even when we were kids. While the rest of us were running around in denim and sneakers, he’d appear in a three-piece suit, polished shoes, and that calm air of someone who knew what he liked.

He wore a brand of men’s stockings called Suphose — thin, elegant, almost European in style. I never quite understood what they were, only that they seemed magnificently sophisticated for someone our age. He had taste — real, deliberate taste — long before most people even thought about such things.

At his house, there was always tea, cookies, and pistachios — the good kind that took effort to crack open. We’d sit in the warm lamplight, Ahmad carefully arranging the tray, making sure everything looked just right before we dug in.

We didn’t have a television at home, so more than once, I’d end up at Ahmad’s to watch PBS Symphony or one of those classical concerts. It felt almost ceremonial — Ahmad in his elegant socks and suit, me cross-legged on the carpet, both of us half-pretending we were more cultured than we really were.

Looking back, I think that was Ahmad’s gift — he made ordinary moments feel easy and graceful. Even a simple evening of tea and music felt like something you should remember. And I always have.

It was Christmas, and I must have been twelve or thirteen. Our family always did a gift exchange, and that year, I drew Ahmad’s name — or maybe he drew mine; I just remember the surprise.

He handed me a small, perfect package — heavy foil paper that shimmered under the tree lights, tied with a satin bow just so, and a tiny “Merry Christmas” note tucked neatly underneath. It looked like something from a boutique window, not the usual family wrapping job of tape and good intentions.

Inside was a miniature crystal bottle of Fiji perfume. Real perfume. The kind that felt impossibly grown-up, mysterious, and far too sophisticated for me. I can still see it — the way the glass caught the light, the faint golden color inside.

Ahmad had a thing for scents; Pierre Cardin was his trademark back then. He wore it like confidence. For him to pick out perfume — to notice beauty in that quiet, thoughtful way — felt like the most elegant gesture imaginable.

It was “too much,” but somehow, it was exactly right. I still have that tiny bottle tucked away somewhere, a little vial of memory — a reminder of Ahmad’s kindness and his knack for making the ordinary feel just a bit extraordinary.

Every spring, our violin teacher, Mr. Stephens, hosted a recital in his living room — a nerve-wracking but sweet affair with folding chairs, shiny shoes, and a potluck table that always had one coveted treasure: a plate piled high with powdered donut holes.

That year, Ahmad and Kevin Schmidt decided they were not leaving their snack destiny to chance. Just before the music began, they “volunteered” to help bring refreshments inside. Moments later, the donut hole plate vanished.

Half an hour passed. Little Vivaldis and mini-Mozarts took their turns, parents clapped politely, and no one seemed to notice the absence of either Ahmad, Kevin, or the donuts… until Mr. Stephens called, “Kevin Smiley — you’re next!”

From down the hall came a faint, tragic voice:

“...help…”

The room went still. Mr. Stephens opened the bathroom door to find two boys, sugar-dusted like ghosts of their own crimes, surrounded by nothing but an empty plate and sticky fingers.

They had eaten every single donut hole. Locked in. No regrets.

Ahmad tried to explain between giggles, “We were just... taste-testing.”

To this day, whenever I see donut holes, I can’t help but think of that great musical interlude — performed entirely in the key of glazed. 🎻🍩

It’s a peaceful thought  to have seen my dad’s life be celebrated. It was pretty devastating for my siblings and I to lose our father even after the abuse and trauma my mother and my siblings had endured through his many years of addiction. 

Let alone— not one of his friends, his family, nor his girlfriend at the time had the decency to notify us about his passing until a week afterwards through a Facebook link. 

Additionally, I come to find out today a celebration of life was done two years ago and no one reached out to any of one of his children. 

At the end of the day, it’s over and done with. It’s pretty low to find out a service was done and no one thought to reach out to his children.