For Todd Duke

For Todd Duke — My Best Friend

I don't even know how to start this because no words will ever be enough. No tribute will ever capture the realness of who Todd Duke was — to me, to my son Jayson, and to so many others. But I need to try.

Todd wasn’t just my best friend for over twenty years. He was the constant. The kind of person you think will always be there. And then, one day — he wasn’t.

He died in December, unexpectedly. Just gone. And I haven’t been the same since. I don’t think I ever will be. I screamed when I found out. I collapsed. I sobbed so hard I couldn’t breathe, and that wave of pain hasn’t really let up. I still reach for my phone to call him and then freeze, every single time. Because for all these years — he always answered. Not once did he make me wait. Not once did he leave me hanging. He just showed up. For everything. Every time. No matter what was going on in his own life. And now I can’t show up for him, and it’s killing me.

He was the most unselfish person I’ve ever known. Always ready to lift me out of a bad mood, to fix whatever was broken — a board, a bike, a situation, me. I’ll never forget the time Jayson dropped his skateboard off the dock — Todd didn’t even blink. He just went for it, got that board back, and handed it to Jayson like it was no big deal. But it was a big deal. That’s the kind of person Todd was. Always making sure the people around him were okay. Especially the kids. Especially Jayson.

Jayson misses him so much. We both do. We went to the skate park on Todd’s birthday — it was supposed to be our little way of celebrating him. But I couldn’t handle it. I just broke down. Every kid I saw skateboarding made my chest cave in a little more. I could see Todd’s grin, hear his laugh, feel him in the air. But he wasn’t there. And it gutted me.

Life without Todd is quieter — and not in a peaceful way. It’s boring. It’s heavy. The days blur and the nights stretch too long. I never realized how much life he brought to my life until it was gone. He kept things moving. Kept me grounded. Kept me from falling apart, even when I didn’t know I was close to the edge. He made everything a little brighter. He was the color in the room.

And now, there's this ache — not just because he’s gone, but because there are things I didn’t know. I found out after he died that he had two babies with someone years ago. They were put up for adoption, and he never told me. I don’t know why. Maybe he didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe he didn’t know how. Or maybe I didn’t ask enough. I’ve been beating myself up over that ever since. Maybe I was so wrapped up in my own storms that I didn’t take the time to really check in on his.

I thought I was a good friend to him. I know he thought I was. But I wish I had slowed down a little, listened deeper, made more space for his pain. I wish he knew I would’ve carried it with him if he let me. I wish I’d asked.

Grief is such a complicated thing. You remember all the good — and there was so much good — and then you remember the missed chances too. But what I do know is this: Todd loved with his whole heart. He didn’t hold back. And he never made you feel like a burden. He made you feel seen. Safe. Important. Even when you didn’t feel that way yourself.

So Todd — thank you. For every time you picked up. For every time you showed up. For every joke, every ride, every late-night talk, every shoulder I cried on. Thank you for loving my son like your own. Thank you for being the brother I never had. Thank you for giving me 20+ years of loyalty, laughter, and light.

I miss you so much, man. Every day. I don’t know how to do this without you, but I’m trying. I hope wherever you are, you’re skating hard and flying high. You deserve peace now. I just wish we had more time.

I’ll love you always, Todd. We both will.