A Story About a Friend

I wouldn’t say that Cicada (he always said his parents were from Cuba) and I were BFFs, but I think I knew him pretty well and we got along just great. I certainly knew him well enough to know that he was a bright guy. He was very creative, interesting, and had a fantastic sense of humor. He liked music. Whenever he’d get together with a bunch of like minded friends you knew there was going to be music, and lots of it. They would start early and it seemed like they played all night long without ever stopping.

He wasn’t the life of the party: you didn’t hear his voice above all others, he didn’t go around glad handing people and telling them to drink up, and he wasn’t the type of person who’d take charge of the music if the radio or CDs were playing. He was a quiet person that would have a group of people around him talking with everyone smiling and the occasional outburst of laughter. So, like I said, not the life of the party but you missed him when he wasn’t there.

I can’t even begin to tell you how sad I was when I heard that something terrible had happened to him. Neither I nor any of his other friends that I talked to have any idea of what happened. Maybe a serious problem with his business (he was self-employed – doing what no one knew exactly), maybe a lost love, but none of us knew if he had been involved with anyone, or maybe a tragedy in his family.

I still don’t know what happened, all I ever heard was that it completely changed him.

The last time I saw him he was just a shell of his former self.

Thanks, David

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Cicada

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