Today is his birthday. He would have been forty---what? Forty-five. .
He was just twenty-one when he died. Coming home too late, too fast, too drunk, leaning his motorcycle into a curve that sent him sprawling, his helmet flung twenty feet from where they found his body.
This isn’t about the hours that stretched into days in the icu waiting room. It is not about a man who never regained consciousness, words of love slipping from his ears, un-heard.
This is about remembering a young man,who loved hiking. Once, when chided by his girlfriend about the risks involved in peeing off a cliff, he mentioned off-handedly that he was an organ donor. This is about his generous parents, who, in spite of their deep and sudden grief, allowed his wish to be fulfilled. This is about the family who prayed for a miracle, but got seven; only they were for seven other people, not their own beloved Ed.
Mostly this is about how, twenty-four years after his organs were rushed to various parts of the state, the portrait I painted of him still hangs six feet two and a half-inches up on my wall. This is about how, in the scheme of eternity, the comfort comes in knowing that the heart I could not bear to stop beating, didn’t.