Never Dead Air

There’s always that one person.

You know the one.

The guy who couldn’t—maybe even wouldn’t—shut up.

You might not have liked him, but you never forgot him. He left an impression, whether you wanted him to or not.

I knew that guy.

I married him.

He made me laugh.
He made me cry.
He frustrated me.
He amazed me.

He knew he should let other people talk. He even tried, sometimes. But people—well, people can be slow. They pause. They hesitate. They leave long stretches of dead air.

And he couldn’t stand dead air.

So—screw it—he’d jump back in. And once he started, he wouldn’t stop.

He told stories. Over and over. Some people had heard them 85 times. But here’s the funny thing: they didn’t mind. Because his stories did more than fill the silence. They carried people through awkward moments. They gave them something to laugh at, something to hold on to. His words were his gift.

That guy—my guy—wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t quiet. He wasn’t patient. But he was present. Always present. With a story. With a laugh. With a comment you didn’t see coming.

And now…
The man who loved talking so much,
the man who always had something to say,
the man who could fill a room with his voice—
can no longer speak.

But here’s the thing: his words live on. In my memory. In your memory. In all the people who ever rolled their eyes, or laughed until they cried, or leaned in just to hear what he would say next.

Silence may have finally come for him—
but he left us so full of words, and never dead air.