There's so much I could share about my twenty-two-year-long relationship with Daniel, such as our shared love for the Fast and the Furious movies (which we watched together religiously for a while) or the old-man energy we basked in during our 20s as we grilled together at one of the various parties he threw.
Over the past few years, we grew apart, and I didn't know what he was like at the end, but I will share a quiet, more private moment I had with him a long time ago. Bear in mind that it's been over a decade since this occurred.
As many people can attest, while Daniel was usually smiling and seemingly aloof, there were occasional moments of quiet contemplation when his outer shell would peel away.
I can't remember why we were so far from my side of town, but Daniel and I were eating at a Chinese restaurant on the east side. I do remember that he was uncharacteristically serious.
As we waited for our food, Daniel shared details about his birth and what he remembered about his father. As he spoke, the confident, relaxed version of Daniel I thought I knew melted away into a more vulnerable, carefully worded version of himself. I realized that even while we smiled and partied and whatnot, he waged battle against these emotions and thoughts daily. He didn't want to become a victim of his circumstances.
As the lunch continued, I shared my own personal struggles with him. By the end of the somber meal, even though we had friends whom we considered family, it felt like Daniel had truly accepted me as his brother for the first time.
Daniel was someone I admired, and I wanted to share how much he fought every day of his life to become someone great. Someone who his friends could rely on for a good time or help whenever they needed it. Someone who deeply loved and took care of his family. Someone who was easy to love.
I hope his family and friends find strength and solace in his passing. I've lost one of my found brothers, but I find comfort in knowing he's no longer suffering or feels incomplete — he is whole.