He was a friend of mine, and I never asked him to buy life insurance because I didn’t want him to think I was the kind of person who would use friendship for personal gain.
He was a friend of mine and when he married I was glad. Because i knew his wife too, and I knew they were the kind of people who deserved all the good things in life that a happy marriage brings.
He was a friend of mine and when the baby came along a year or so ago, I was awfully proud and happy for them. But I never told him how he could help assure his child’s education.
He was a friend of mine and when I attended the housewarming in his new home six moths later, I thought about mentioning insurance to help pay off the mortgage, but I decided to wait until he had a chance to catch up with all his expenses.
He was a friend of mine, and when his car missed the curve in the storm last night, I was the first one his widow called.
Day after tomorrow I’ll be standing beside my friend’s grave, and I’ll still be trying to rationalize my failure to even talk to him about life insurance. I’ll be thinking, too, even more bitterly than I am now, about the staggering price his family paid for my false pride and foolish sensitivity.
But most of all I’ll be wondering when the time comes to pay my last respects whether, if he could speak, he would say of me as I do of him, “he was a friend of mine.”