Tommy

Tommy, if you were here now I'd put my arms around you and squeeze you tighter than tight. I'd try to tell you about all of the crazy things that have happened to me - to the world - since that bizarre day you were taken. Killed by a cop who made a horrible mess of her job. "Just one of those things," the police chief said.
We were more than friends - we were brothers. Misfits who, at least, had each other.
We talked and talked and talked and talked. Sometimes we fought. We had a bond, that now - nearly 30 years after your death - seems uncannily mature.
I often wonder what you would have become. I didn't amount to much, but I'm still here (for some reason) and still trying. Or not.
I think of you nearly every day. I remember everything about you. The way you looked. The way you spoke. The way you moved. Those long thin fingers. The look in your eye...
I'm an old man now, sitting in front of a computer - the world at my finger tips (oh, how you would have loved this), but I'm writing this on a 3x5 note card, with a pen. The way it has to be.
There's just too much to tell you. Russel's gone, Tommy. I guess he was about 40. He was a good guy.
We used to talk about the possibility of life after death. Well, as long as I live, you will live - in a fashion - as part of me. And I'll carry your spirit proudly. You would have done the same for me. I'm sure of it.