Dear Vince,

I’ve been dreading writing your eulogy for fear it would be a string of cliches and platitudes, so instead I’m just going to write you a letter.

I’m sitting in Vince’s Room as I write this. I’ve been sitting in Vince’s Room pretty much every day since I got the tragic news.

I’m so mad, Vince. I’m mad at the careless hospital, our broken healthcare system, and an unfair universe that plucked you from our lives so prematurely.

I’m also mad at myself for not being as good a friend to you as you were to me.

I had my fair share of selfish and impatient moments with you, and you never took offense or got angry with me. You never gave up on me. You could see through it, peering into my soul with those big brown saucers you called eyes, and knew that fundamentally I am a good person and loved you as much as you loved me.

I wish I had said it more. You were the first male friend I ever had who told me he loved me—and on a regular basis. It would make me cringe because I’m not physically or verbally affectionate, not even with my family. When you’d say it, I would reciprocate reluctantly, and I hoped you could never discern my hesitation. But I’m sure you did because you were so intuitive, but you kept on saying it.

You knew I dislike most men. I think they’re egotistical, selfish, sexist, homophobic, indifferent, and self-absorbed. You were none of those things. What I particularly appreciated was that there wasn’t one homophobic bone in your body. If every man on this earth were like you, Vincent, there would be no wars.

In the last 10 days, because I’ve been so immersed in reading stories about you on your website, reflecting on our escapades across seven states, and reminiscing with your friends and family, I’ve reached for my phone numerous times to text you. Sometimes to tease you about a funny story someone recounted that I didn’t know about or to ask you how you know so-and-so or to gossip about someone ’cause Lord knows we loved our chisme. Each time that’s happened, it’s been a sucker punch to the gut, the bitter irony washing over me from head to toe.

But I know that if you were here in the flesh, you’d tell me to buck up, not to despair. You’d crack some joke with a clever turn of phrase, which was the hallmark of our text exchanges. You’d give me a hug and tell me you’re okay and not to worry. You’d make it about me, not you, and find a way to pivot my perspective and turn this tragedy into something sweet and enduring.

Then you’d tell me you love me.

And while you’re not here in the flesh, I do know you’re here with me as I write this. You’re sitting next to me on the couch in Vince’s Room, the place where you and Xena slept in my home for a couple of months while tying up loose ends before moving to Seattle to join Nadia. You told me I was never allowed to call it the guest room again, that henceforth it was to be known simply as Vince’s Room. And so it has remained.

The other night, when I had Eddy, Justin, Brock, Corbin, Kelsey, and Don over to eat wings and toast you, Don and I stepped outside to get some fresh air, and when we came back in, the other boys had all migrated from the kitchen to Vince’s Room. It’s not the logical choice—the living room is. But for some reason, they chose your room without even knowing its history. I explained they were in Vince’s Room, and that’s when I knew you were present. That was exactly why they gravitated to that room—the same way everyone in life gravitated to you.

Good night, Saint Vincent—sweet friend, loving father, amazing husband, perfect son, and best man.

I love you,
Alex

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