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.