It’s hard to find the right words to sum up who David was, but one thing’s for sure: if you knew him, you knew you could always count on him. David wasn’t one for big speeches or grand gestures. He was the guy who quietly made life better in small, important ways, and it’s those little things that made him unforgettable.

I’ll never forget the time my old Honda Civic broke down—right in the parking lot of Safeway. I was staring at the engine, wondering if I’d have to call a tow truck, when suddenly, I see David pulling up in his old, trusty Ford F-150. He rolled down the window and with that classic grin of his said, “What, you couldn’t wait for me to get here before you broke it?” He didn’t even wait for me to ask; he just got out, popped the hood, and started working on it. Fifteen minutes later, the car was running again, and David was acting like it was no big deal. That’s just who he was—always there, always helping, and never expecting anything in return.

And David had this incredible way of turning the simplest things into something special. I remember him telling us about how he was teaching his dog, Max, to bring him a Coors Light from the fridge. None of us believed it would work, but the next time we were over at his place, sure enough, there was Max, trotting over with a cold can in his mouth. David was so proud, grinning from ear to ear. It was these small, random moments that made being around him so much fun. He could turn an ordinary Sunday afternoon into a memory that still makes us laugh.

Then there were the times he didn’t say much but knew exactly what to do. I had a rough patch at work a few months ago—nothing major, just one of those weeks where everything felt off. One evening, right after I’d finally gotten home and settled in, there was a knock on my door. I opened it, and there’s David, standing there with a six-pack of Budweiser, just saying, “Figured you could use one of these.” No long chat, no deep conversation—just him, sitting there, drinking beer and watching TV with me like everything was normal. But that’s how David showed up for you. He didn’t need words; he just knew when you needed someone around.

What made David special was how much he gave without ever asking for anything in return. He didn’t make a show of it, but if something needed fixing—a broken window, a leaky faucet, or even a rough day—David was there. It’s the little things he did, the quiet ways he was there for all of us, that I think we’ll miss the most.

It’s hard to imagine a world without David in it. No more random drop-ins at Costco, no more hearing him laugh at one of his terrible jokes, and no more of those moments where he’d just quietly help fix whatever needed fixing. But what we can do, the best way we can honor him, is to take that part of David with us. To show up for each other, quietly, just like he did for us.

David might not be here anymore, but the impact he made—the care he gave us, the laughs, the help, the simple moments—those things will stay with us forever. And in that way, he’ll never really be gone.