He admit­ted to me that in his car, when he’s dri­ving alone, there’s a com­pul­sion to put together the details of his father as he writes in his mind the speech for the even­tual day that a eulogy will need to be deliv­ered. The only other per­son he’s admit­ted this to is his girl­friend, who’s labeled the prac­tice as rather dis­turb­ing. Morbid, I’ll agree, as his father is far from pass­ing, but not as strange as she makes it out to be. In return, I admit to him that I do the same thing when I piece together sto­ries of his life for the speech I’ll be deliv­er­ing as best man at his wed­ding, an event just as grave, and every bit as tragic.

He humor­ously finds relief in this.