My cousin Ricky died today. He was 39 years old and had three kids. He went to see his doctor about back pain earlier this week and ended up in intensive care after they found his body was ravaged by cancer. The pain became unbearable and the doctors medically induced a coma.
They pulled the plug today.
We grew up several states apart, he in New Jersey while I was in Virginia. But we saw each other at least once a year, whether it was a family reunion or just his parents visiting my grandparents. He was always kind, funny, mischievous and light-hearted. I remember when I was 6 how he used to steal kisses behind my grandparent's shed when he thought the "grown-ups" weren't watching. We were kids then and thought life went on forever.
I haven't seen or talked to Ricky in over 10 years, since we met again at a family reunion. This time he was fresh out of the Navy, a caring husband and a doting father. I can't tell you the name of his wife. I don't remember the names of his kids. I'm not even sure where he lived in Florida.
But I miss him just the same.
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