We all have that friend, the one that eventually becomes friends with the people that we introduce them to, separate from our friendship. Whether this is because they are the affable-funny-gets-drunk-and-hugs-everybody type (*ahem* Yours Truly), or because they are simply good people, others are drawn to them and call them "friend."

I had a friend, growing up in rural Montana, named Robert*, that was one of the latter. Everybody that met him, liked him, and everyone that really knew him, loved him. Throughout our formative years, and beyond, I never heard a bad word about him from anyone, ever.

*changed

He was a quiet kid and painfully shy, but shy without being reclusive. He was like a well in our lives, deep, rock-solid and immovable, waiting for you to draw from him what you needed, yet never running dry.

He loved and gave of himself completely and whole-heartedly, and never held back. This sometimes drew unsavory people to him like druggies, losers and the occasional manipulative woman. He never really had very good luck with women because he was too quiet to draw the attention of the cheerleader/popular types. Instead, the girls with serious baggage tended to find him and, because of his giving nature, they tended to take advantage of his open heart and freely given love.

I helped him pick up the pieces of his broken heart more than once, as he helped me with mine once.

Though we grew up a grade apart, we'd known each other since birth, and his family's ranch was one of the two that I grew to call "another home." We each had our times when we ran with different crowds, but we always called the other, "friend," and we'd always go back to hanging out together every few months or so.

He was the guy that you could always call upon if you needed a ride somewhere, or to borrow five bucks, or if you just needed a dip of chew in between classes. He would do any of these things willingly and happily, for he always trusted that, when and if he needed it, any of the people that he gave to would give the same to him in return.

He had an unshakeable faith in humanity.

When we got busted for Underage Possession of Alcohol, and he puked all over himself while the cop was arresting us, I took off my hooded sweatshirt, tore off the ratty old tank-top I had on, and gave it to him to clean himself up. Forever after that, I was known as the friend who "really DID give him the shirt off his back."

I never would have considered otherwise, as I would've done anything for him, as he would have for me.

His Senior year, when he broke a school record for touchdowns and yardage as our star tailback and got voted 1st team All-State, he bought me a case of beer, as I was the one who did most of the blocking for him. He smiled, thanked me and told me that he couldn't have done it alone. He was always thoughtful like that.

After I graduated and moved far away to school, our contact became sporadic, as it did with most of my friends and family. Some friends "grew up" and we didn't hang out any longer on my visits home. Robert and I always found time for each other though, even during the busy holidays. When we hung out, it was as if time had never lapsed. This became easier over the years, as most of my very good friends now included him in that group as well, and our tight-knit crew grew only tighter.

He eventually got married, as we all knew he would, finding once again a woman that none of us really liked. He loved her though, more than anything else, and none of us would have ever thought to question his love for anyone, as we had all been the beneficiaries of it.

His love for her changed over the years, particularly when we all suspected her of infidelity, but when his son was born, it was as if all of his years of giving himself to unappreciative women were suddenly washed away.

He loved that little boy more than I'd ever seen a father love a son. The two of them seemed like twin halves of the same soul. Even though his friends and family knew that his son took precedence over all others in his life, we all still knew that he was there for anything we needed, perhaps moreso at that point than ever.

He still spent his weekends helping his aging parents with their assorted ranching chores, yet always found time for his friends, whether it was helping them move, watching football on Sunday, or whooping it up on Saturday night.

He had very little money, so most of the time on gift-giving occasions, you would receive something he'd made in his wood-working shop. His creations were truly works of art, and each and every one had a piece of his heart and soul in them. When asked how he could part with some of the flawlessly beautiful pieces, he would humbly reply, "Oh, I can always make another one."

He was the best in all of us.

---

He died, two years ago today, in a car accident on a quiet stretch of Montana highway. The details of which I won't go into because of the senselessness of their nature. Suffice to say, he was hit head-on by someone who shouldn't have been driving.

When I got the phone call at work, it was from his little brother, who is a cop now in Montana and was obviously well practiced at delivering news of that nature. After I put the phone down, I stared at my keyboard for 4 and a half hours straight, feeling absolutely nothing. I only know the time duration because I got the call just after lunch, and only looked up when my co-workers turned the office lights off, signaling that it was time to go home.

I went home and waited outside, in the cold, for the Girl to come home. When she did, I collapsed in her arms and sobbed like a baby.

The drive home to Montana was filled with many of these moments, and it wasn't easy to be surrounded by holiday "cheer."

It wasn't just me that was grief-stricken though, we all felt the same way, and other's tears were nothing but a comfort. Everyone that knew him, wept for him. His funeral packed the tiny Church, and people that neither he nor I had seen in 10 years drove across several states in a matter of days, just to be there.

I remember very little of the services.

Burying him was the hardest thing I've ever done in my entire life.

---

I'd never been religious, but if I had any shred of belief in a benevolent, higher power, it died that day.

If it indeed was one entity's decision to take the best person in all of our lives from us, then I would sincerely like to meet Him/Her in person...

...and punch them square the fucking face.

Anger.

Loss.

Grief.

I obviously still have a lot that I need to deal with. Some of it has faded over time, but it is still frighteningly intense sometimes (like now), and I don't know that it will ever completely go away.

I just miss my friend.

---

About two months after his death, I had a dream about him. I was relatively lucid, in that I knew that he was dead and found it strange that he would be there in front of me, talking to another friend of ours. When it was obvious it was my turn to visit with him and he turned to me with a warm smile, the wall opened up into a brilliant, glowing door. He gave me a regretful look, turned from me, and walked through it.

I woke up feeling happy that he had attempted to visit me, but bitter that we hadn't gotten a chance.

For Saint Patrick's Day, a few of us got together here in Denver, for a night of drinking and pool. It was the first time we'd all been together since the funeral, and the evening understandably devolved into a slobbering, tear-stained mess. As we ordered the 3rd round of shots, I told the others about my dream.

As I laid it out in the best detail I could recall, I watched their faces turn from somber sadness to disbelief, especially when I shared with them the relative time frame in which I'd had the dream.

Upon hearing this, AdoptedBrother just stared shell-shocked at his lap. The Girl's brother, Shithead, screamed loudly, "No fucking way!" and stormed off.

After some prompting, AdoptedBrother told me that he'd had a similar dream around that same time, and he hadn't gotten to talk to Robert either but his dead Grandpa had told him that he was looking after him and that he was fine.

Shithead eventually came back to the table, very drunk yet visibly shaken, and told us about a dream he had had, during the same time frame, about how he'd seen Robert and wasn't able to talk to him yet knew he was okay.

---

Over the years, I've dreamt about him often, at least once a month.

Sometimes, he has something to give to me, a box of cigars, a twelve-pack of beer, or the CD of an obscure band that we both loved.

Sometimes, we're both 15 again, pitching hay bales back on the ranch.

The other night, we were fishing, and his son as well as other people significant in my life, were with us enjoying his company.

In my dreams, I don't always realize that he is dead and shouldn't be there with me, drinking a beer at the local bar. Sometimes, when I do realize and ask him how it is that he can be there with me, he gives me a look of sadness, like I just broke one of the rules, and he is gone.

---

I used to have specific plans for what was to come of me after my death.

Now, when I think of where I want those that loved me to visit my remains, I can't think of anywhere better than somewhere near my friend.

This was taken at Thanksgiving.

As he visits me in my dreams, I never fail to visit his grave when I am home.

Sometimes, I talk to him.

Sometimes, I take a pinch of chewin' tobacco and put it on his headstone.

Sometimes, I lay in the grass and watch the horses graze in a nearby pasture.

Every time I'm there though, an unseen switch is thrown in my brain, and my tears flow freely. No matter if I try or not, I can't stop them.

---

I have a hockey game now, and I have to attempt to clean myself up before I get to the rink or come up with a good story about why my eyes are moist and swollen.

Cement-headed hockey players or not, they are unlikely to buy my story of "allergies" when it's the middle of December, and I am not about to tell the whole lockerroom that I am sad because I miss my friend.

We don't win when I'm happy or grumpy, we're sure to lose if I'm somber and depressed.

Yes, I make light of things to hide the pain.

---

I'll leave you with this.

For those closest to you... Love 'em.

Love 'em with everything you got.

Never miss an opportunity to tell them what they mean to you.

I do my damnedest to try and do this in my life, and I've never regretted it. Awkward moments or not, it's always worth it.

And a sweaty, 220-pound, goalie, hugging his defenseman in the rink parking lot after a heart-to-heart talk is awkward, trust me.

Again, with the joking.

I gotta go.

Take care all.