My friend, Dave, died last week.

On Friday.

Of Covid.

(Not long after I posted the column.)

It’s been rough.

I’m 48, yet lack significant experience with grief.

(Knock on wood.)

I hadn’t known anyone who suffered horribly from Covid, much less perished.

Man, what a shitty situation.

A million dead, here in the US, and so many friends and loved ones left with holes in their hearts.

This was particularly cruel, though, as I’d begged Dave to get a booster shot.

(He’d only had the J&J vaccine, last summer, due to an employer mandate.)

But he said no, despite knowing his lifestyle, weight-lifting at the gym, working security at the local bar, meant he was almost certain to contract the virus at some point.

Dave, who was conservative politically, and came from a religious background, wasn’t willing to engage in further vaccination.

We even spoke about what would happen if he got Covid.

That he would end up with unpayable medical bills.

That he might die, due to pre-existing conditions.

And now he’s gone.

(Such a bummer.)

In my mind, Dave was a hero.

He was kind, selfless, curious, and wise.

He went out of his way to help people, and took his job in security seriously.

(This week, I saw an FB comment that Dave used to walk a woman into work each day, at 4am, during his rounds.)

When we’d train in the public park, (for hours at a time,) unhoused, or very drunk people would stop to talk to us, or watch what we were doing.

Every time, Dave treated the person …