staceybooks

Today I lost a friend.

He came into my life when I was just 17. My daughter grew up calling him “Uncle,” not by blood, but by the kind of loyalty and history that runs deeper than DNA. He was her dad’s best friend since kindergarten. Always around. Always part of the story. Always in our lives, whether we realized how much that meant or not.

We hadn’t spoken in years. Life does that. It scatters people. Time moves, people change, and moments slip through our fingers while we’re busy chasing the next thing. But news like this has a way of snapping everything into focus. And suddenly, what we thought was important just isn’t.

He wasn’t loud or flashy. He was shy, nerdy, and completely obsessed with cars. He had this hilarious way of making you think he was booked solid when really he had nowhere to be. We used to call him the busiest non busy person we knew, and he fully lived up to it.

He’s the reason I love old cars. The reason I drank my first terrible mudslide. He was the shoulder I cried on more than once, and the one who kept my daughter’s dad out all night watching RATT concerts. He once snuck a kiss that left me stunned and laughing all at once. We spent hours riding through the park in his hot rods, music blasting—Nine Inch Nails, Korn, Limp Bizkit. Those moments felt like freedom.

And now I can’t stop thinking about how we let time pass without checking in. Without saying, “Hey, I still think about you.” Without sharing a simple thank you for the memories. The moments we think are small, the people we assume will always be there, they matter more than anything else.

We stress over emails, bills, who’s doing what online, whether we’re successful enough, busy enough, or doing enough. But in the end, none of that noise stays.

What stays are the people who were there. The music. The late-night drives. The friendships that became family. The quiet ones who held more space in our hearts than we ever said out loud.

I’m mad he’s gone. I’m mad at myself for not reaching out sooner. But I’m also so grateful that he was part of my life, my daughter’s life, and our story.

So today, if you’re reading this, stop for a minute. Think about who your “Uncle” is. The friend who’s just always been there. The one you haven’t talked to in years but still love. Reach out. Forgive. Laugh. Let go of the stuff that doesn’t matter.

Because most of it truly doesn’t.

Rest easy, my forever friend.

You’ll always be a part of my heart and our family’s story.