I apologize for the long ramble…

On a daily basis, since Christmas Eve and the several weeks leading up to it, I’ve run through, in my mind, how to say goodbye to my incredible friend and brother Dave Zaran. It’s been a heartbreaking task made nearly impossible by both the enormity of the loss and the shocking speed at which it has happened. Each thought is quickly overrun by another stronger, deeper, more emotional memory and making sense of them and this entire experience has been a cruel example of the phrase “words cannot express.”

The level of loss I am feeling isn’t simply because I’ve known Dave since 1970 when my family moved into a house down the street from him. It isn’t the countless memories, stories, and laughs I have shared growing up with Dave. It isn’t the annual co-birthday extravaganzas (always fun, often embarrassing) since our birthdays are just three days apart. It isn’t even celebrating weddings and the births of our kids with him. It isn’t the joy of sharing vacations and camping trips with Dave, Lori, Rachel, Alex, and Natalie; or reliving those trips and memories over regular dinners and parties together. It isn’t crying and mourning with Dave over the loss of our beloved Lori.

In truth, my most cherished memories with Dave are the quiet moments: sitting around a campground fire having a beer or two (and, unlike our earlier birthdays, one or two really had become our limit) while wearing ridiculous leather hats from the local party store. Or sitting on a hotel balcony in Rome, eating carry-out pizza while our kids played in the room. The magic of Dave, to me, has been his ability to derive the same amount of joy and happiness from a simple dinner and conversation with family or friends (old and new) as he did from crossing the finish line of one of his 15 Ironmans. This is the daunting legacy I will most remember and maybe even aspire to. .

Last week, I was reading a book called Poppy to my third grade students. I came to a passage where the main character, a mouse, was on a journey, trekking through a huge, imposing forest. She stops along the way and describes how the overwhelming vastness of the forest made her feel incredibly small and insignificant; but, at the same time, being even a small part of the vastness made her feel enormous and empowered. This seemed to be a perfect metaphor to describe being friends with Dave. While always inspiring, watching Dave live his life — his vast and varied networks of friends, adventurous spirit, or complete dedication to his passion pursuits — could definitely make us mere mortals feel small. Yet, because he had the unique ability to make whoever he was with feel like the center of the universe, like Poppy, being a part of Dave’s life always made me feel a little bigger and better than I am.

The loss of Dave has been a shocking, crushing blow to so many who share the same feelings and connections to him as I. I also know I will miss that connection every day. While I am not a fan of moral victories, I can take some solace and inspiration from the fact that Dave packed so much life and love into his 64 years. Mark Twain said, “Most men die at 27; we just bury them at 72.” Twain clearly never met my friend Dave Zaran.