Requiem for a Not-Quite-Friend

On the day before my 58th birthday, a man who was just a few weeks older than me died. I’ll just call him “H.”

I met H. when we were in the seventh grade. We went to the same church — my family and I were newcomers, joining the small Lutheran congregation after years of no religious observance. H. was the youngest son of a prominent lawyer in town; the f…