Yesterday, I learned that M, a lawyer friend of mine had died.
I am sad, not just because M is gone, but because we had lost touch over the last three years, and all my good intentions of tracking him down again are moot; I wish I had done better. I am also sad because M was young -- probably just about 35 years old -- but had lived a life that was so full and so tragic all at once.

M was born with hemophilia, contracted HIV during a blood transfusion, was handicapped and had to walk with arm braces most of the time, engaged in a years-long class action suit against the blood-processing companies, graduated from a prestigious law school, took loads of pills every day for the hemophilia and the HIV, landed a plum job in New York, and got married. Yet none of his great losses, burdens or successes altered his character -- every day, he was, without fail, kind, witty, clever, smart, helpful, comedic, self-deprecating about his "bum leg," compassionate, tongue-in-cheek, encouraging me always. I was his paralegal, performing daily administrative tasks for him, as well as submitting written work for him to edit, and it was the easiest job I've ever had: he did all his own copying and filing, read through my work the moment I handed it to him, and even walked the edited version back to my little cubicle instead of calling me into his office to go over the corrections. He appreciated the exercise, he said.

I assume M died of complications from AIDS. That makes him the first person I personally know -- knew? -- to die of AIDS. I don't count his death as something for me to chalk up to experience. But I do place M and his life on my list of "Reasons I Am Who I Am Today," and his death on my list of "Inspirations For Trying Harder to Make the World Better."