I walked across the parking lot to the church, acutely aware of the bright, yellow sunshine hitting my skin. It was a beautiful summer day in Austin, Texas -- the last day of May. Birds were chirping and there were puffy, white clouds littered across the painted blue sky. On any other day, I would have smiled and soaked it all in. But that day, dressed in all black, I wished for the sky to turn dark, and to feel cold, furious raindrops fall down on me, hitting me as hard as they could. How could it be such a perfect day when the world had lost such a radiant person? I wanted the weather to reflect the turmoil deep inside and in the guts of everyone around me.

I don’t remember what I wrote in the guest book. I don’t remember finding a seat in the pews amongst all of those grieving individuals. Hell, I don’t even remember walking through the door. My feet seemed to be on autocruise. I was just going where they took me.

I do remember looking up at the stage and seeing a box on the altar. I remember knowing immediately what it was, what it was for. I remember being so confused as to how my giant of a friend could fit in there. He was larger than life. How could he be contained? Wouldn’t he spill out?

It all felt like some big joke. I sat there, listening to people sharing their experiences of how he had shaped their lives, half expecting him to pop out from behind a curtain and ask why everybody was so damn sad. But he never did. No, he had become a pile of ash trapped in a box on display.

But that’s not how I want to remember him. I want to remember him as the sparkling, passionate enigma I had known him to be. He was a snake -- regularly dislocating his jaw wide enough to devour all life had to offer him. He made you laugh so hard you thought you might throw up. He made you think… about everything. He rooted for you. He was a beautiful, joyful, thoughtful soul. He was a son, brother, boyfriend, student, co-worker, classmate, acquaintance. He was a gift. He was my friend.