14 PUNCHMAGAZINE.COM {sloane citron} pronounced, though we could still do most everything we would normally do, and Mike was still working with his son to manage the company. But over the last year, as is inevitable, things have gone downward. Mike is still there but he repeats thoughts, calls me up the next day after we have talked to tell me the same things we discussed the day before and was gently removed from any management duties at the company. I don’t know the details of his dementia diagnosis, but it’s real, whatever it is. Fortunately, there was an old home, not used for much of anything, attached to their printing company. After some minor renovation and a good cleaning, the house was the perfect place for Mike, since he enjoys wandering around the printing plant and kidding around with the employees, who all love him. Mike had always been there when I needed a friend. Goodness begets goodness, and now it was my turn. On my latest trip, I hosted a dinner party in his honor—not just to celebrate him, but to surround him with the people who mattered most in his life, and to remind them of how deeply they still matter to him now. The night was alive with laughter and stories, and for a few precious hours, the weight of his illness lifted. Mike was happy. And that was everything. I love Mike, and it tears at me to see how cruelly this disease is stealing from him. But love calls us to act. As it’s said, helping one person may not change the whole world, but for that one person, it can mean the world. For Mike, for those we love, we must keep showing up—with our time, our presence, our hearts. Because in the end, that is how we honor both friendship and life itself. E ach summer, my brother Dan and I meet in Denver, where he lives and practices medicine, and from there we drive to Amarillo, Texas, where we grew up. We stay with a dear family friend who now has the ramshackle cabin that her parents built in the Palo Duro Club. An offshoot of the Palo Duro Canyon, it’s in one the most beautiful places in America, and also one of the least-known. After the Grand Canyon, it is the second largest such canyon in our country. While Dan relaxes at the cabin—hiking, swimming, wildlife watching and hunting for arrowheads—I spend a good portion of my time hanging out with the same kids I grew up with. There’s Julie, my kindergarten girlfriend, Scotty, my first friend who lived three houses down from me, Susan, my grade school gal. And at the top of the list is Mike, one of my closest and dearest friends in Amarillo, or anywhere, for that matter. I left for prep school at Andover following middle school at Austin Junior High, and I was mostly miserable 3,000 miles from home, where I was slow to adapt and slower still to make friends. Whenever I flew back for vacations, my father would pick me up at the airport and take me to our family home. Every time—and how he always knew I still don’t understand— sitting in his car waiting for me was Mike. You couldn’t ask for a more loyal pal. I have gone back to Amarillo once a year throughout my entire adulthood, first to visit my dad, and after he died, to visit my friends. As time passed, I realized that those visits helped me understand who I am. They allowed me to enjoy an environment totally different from the frantic pace of the Peninsula. It is a lovely city, with beautiful 1940s homes, brick streets and kind, friendly people. And every visit included spending time with Mike, playing golf, hanging around his family’s printing company, reminiscing about the outrageous things we did as kids. Mike has done something that few can achieve: he inherited a medium-sized family company, grew it and successfully handed it off to his highly capable son, Jake, who is now powering the firm forward. Two years ago, while on my annual visit, I noticed that Mike seemed a tad bit off. We were out at the dusty country club we grew up at ($5,000 to join today!) and he had a hard time introducing me to people and making decisions. I didn’t think much of it, since recalling names is at the bottom of my own skillset. But then, during our regular phone calls, I noticed more challenges and difficulties. I called his daughter, Kacie, and she told me that Mike had been diagnosed with early onset dementia. It knocked me for a loop. Last year, during my visit, the changes were a bit more a forever friend
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