The Best

Dave is my younger brother. He passed away at 40years old on March 13, 2024.

The last time we were all together as a family before everything changed was for Lourdes, our mom’s 80th birthday. It was a magnificent celebration, filled with family, friends, and so much love. And Dave, being Dave, made sure to catch up with everyone he hadn’t seen in a while.

He wasn’t on social media--no Facebook, no Instagram, nothing. He was old school. The best way to know what was going on in someone’s life was to talk to them, to ask questions, to listen. And when Dave talked to you, he had this way of making you feel like the most important person in the room.  I know because that’s how he always made me feel.

Two days after the party, Dave and I took a walk by the lake near our parents’ house. Just the two of us, talking the way brothers do.

At one point, we got to talking about emergencies--what we’d do, what we’d think if something ever happened. When it came to that first thought upon seeing flashing lights, my brother didn’t hesitate:

"Thank God, Mom is okay."

Dave rarely worried about himself. We worried for him--and with good reason. He tore through the streets of Manhattan on an electric skateboard (where he ended up breaking his femur), shattered his wrist diving onto concrete in a volleyball game, even fell off an ATV in Mexico for his bestfriend’s bachelor party. But that was the price of admission. Dave lived his life like it was the greatest ride on earth.

And yet, for all his recklessness, when it truly mattered--when you cracked open that locked treasure chest of a heart--his first thought was always us. His family. That instinct, that selflessness, that was Dave. Always thinking about someone else. Always putting family first.

No Matter the Distance

Our dad, Danilo, was the 11th of 13 children.  That meant we had a big family with relatives scattered all over the country. But Dave, in particular, made sure distance never meant disconnect.

When our cousins Allen and Nica had a layover in New York, he didn’t think twice about leaving his holiday work party to pick them up at JFK, just to squeeze in a few extra hours together. When Rommel and Buffy--more than a decade older than us--came to visit, Dave made sure they saw the city his way. That meant starting the night at Gansevoort, then--somehow, effortlessly--gliding past the velvet rope at Le Bain, where most people waited for hours only to be turned away with a glance. Not Dave. He moved like he belonged, because he did. And if the night called for more, he and his cousins-in-crime, Pierre and Ryan, knew exactly where to go. House of Yes in Brooklyn--where the rules were different and the experience? Well, you just had to be there. And of course, no night was complete without a stop at Artichoke Pizza after 4 AM--because Dave knew that some things in New York were worth the wait.

Dave’s New Yorka' loyalty wasn’t bound by boroughs. When Eloise had a get-together in Maryland, he hopped on a train to Baltimore without a second thought--for some crawfish, cornhole, and catching up like only family could. And when our youngest cousin, Tanya, visited Manhattan for the first time and got a little too much attention from bystanders, Dave made it clear--without a word, without breaking a stride--that respect wasn’t optional. One moment, he was the fun, easygoing big cousin showing her the city; the next, he was her quiet but undeniable protector. Tanya said it best: “Dave was just so cool--with his cigarette, leaning against the brick wall.” (Sorry, Mom, about the smoking--Dave knew you hated that.)

And it wasn’t just family by blood. Dave had the best of friends since high school, and Johnny and Jeff weren’t just friends--they were his brothers. Even after he moved to Austin, Texas, he still made the trip back to New York to see them, never letting time or miles get in the way of the people who mattered most.

That was Dave. If you were family--by blood, by bond--you mattered. And he made sure you felt it.

Socks 

Dave wasn’t just about the big gestures. It was in the details, the small moments that mattered more than anyone realized.  When we were kids, our mom always gave us Christmas gifts from Bloomingdale’s. Socks. It was always socks. And, being kids, we’d laugh, toss them aside, and look for something better--something fun. I didn’t get it then. But Dave did.

As he got older, he carried on that tradition in his own way. Every holiday, every birthday, he made sure his godson, Tristan, and his goddaughter, Rayne, got their own Christmas Bloomingdale’s gifts--because that’s what Mom had done for us. He never explained it. He just did it.  That was Dave. The one who paid attention. The one who remembered. The one who made sure the little things never got lost.

"The Best."

It wasn’t just something Dave said--it was how he lived. It was never about how long you’d known someone or how many times you’d been somewhere--it was about the quality of the time spent. A five-minute conversation could hold as much weight as a lifelong friendship if it was real, if it mattered. That’s what made something “The Best” to him.

And when he’d FaceTime my kids, the moment Raylee and Kyla saw his face, they’d scream, “Uncle Dave!” Without missing a beat, he’d respond the only way he knew how: “The Best!” He found joy in the moment, value in the experience, and made life feel exactly as he saw it. 

The Last Lesson

The final memory I have of Dave being Dave was at Raylee’s karate class. He was sitting with Kyla, watching, fully present. And then, suddenly after class, the seizure happened. That was the moment everything changed.  It was the last time we saw Dave as he was.  He was present. He had a supreme knowledge of self. He never cared about status or social hierarchy--he talked to everyone like they mattered, because to him, they did.

Keeping Him Here

I carry that lesson forward--to live and love my life with greater intentionality. I look for Dave when I see Raylee and Kyla playing the way we did as kids. I laugh and cry with my wife, Heather, when anything of everything reminds me of him. I share a quiet moment with my mom and put my arm around her. I have coffee with my dad and listen to his stories--just like Dave did.

And in my own private moments, I take a breath, close my teary eyes, and acknowledge one simple truth: I had the greatest brother in the world. And I still do.

When I was writing this, Raylee walked up and looked over my shoulder, curious but silent. She just knew. She didn’t need to ask what I was writing about. She just stood there, waiting for me to say it. My voice cracked as I told her, I’m journaling, just like you do in your diary.

She didn’t say a word. She just whispered, “Dave.” That’s how I know he’s still with us.

A Twenty Year Envelope

As I was attending to Dave’s items from his estate, I found a sealed envelope. Inside was a letter from his college professor, dated over 20 years ago--his final report for an internship at Universal Records.

In it, he wrote: “I felt like a success because my riches have nothing to do with fortune.”

Even then, Dave knew what truly mattered. Success wasn’t about money, titles, or status. It was about being present, finding joy in the moment, and staying true to who you are. Reading it, I learned something new about Dave--yet something familiar. He had been living with wisdom long before the rest of us noticed. And in that moment, I felt his presence, as if he had left me this lesson to find exactly when I needed it most.

At our mom’s 80th birthday, Dave ended his speech with:

”If you work hard and surround yourself with good and kind people, amazing things will happen. Happy birthday, Mom. I love you to death.”

That’s how he lived. And that’s how I keep him close. By working hard. By choosing kindness. By surrounding myself with the right people. By loving fiercely. I heard you, Dave. I’m living it. And I love you to death, too.

You’re the best.