For roughly twenty years, Greg Foster was my colleague. He was my friend. I mourn his death, but more importantly, I am here to write about his life.

I write to cut through the frustration, confusion — and anger — that I and so many must be feeling. I write because I know that, in time, our feelings will fade. I write because I know that so to will Greg’s memory. I write because I know that by enshrining those memories of him that he will continue to live in this mortal world. I write because I know the only truly dead are those who have been forgotten.

This historical maxim comforts me: All good men must die, but death cannot kill their names. As long as we live, they live. How can those close to us not be a part of us? Are we not changed? Have shared experiences not created an unbreakable bond? As long as we remember, they are not gone.

I am not here as Greg’s closest friend. I have met so many wonderful people through Greg who must be suffering far more than I am. I only hope to provide comfort through my memories of him and, perhaps, to encourage others to do the same.

I met Greg professionally. We both worked in South Carolina politics. I am a few years older, but we were all eager to get into the game. To do our part to make the world better. Greg going to work for the Speaker of the House is a feather in his cap to how talented he was. Greg did not just have a seat in the room; he was a trusted advisor and often the face of one of the most powerful offices in the state. That is rarified air, indeed.

When he left the Speaker’s Office to hang his shingle, I saw an opportunity to tap into his abilities. While I was focused on digital communications for various verticals, our company partnered with Greg to handle some vital legacy clients needing traditional PR services. He always delivered on the client’s objectives, no matter how challenging or tight the deadline was. A year or so later, we brought him in-house as an executive to lead our strategic communications. After 9 years, it was time for me to make a change and leave the agency. Greg would make a move about a year later. But that is not the full story of my memories of Greg. That’s just scratching the surface.

Many great memories flood me as I look at pictures of us throughout the years. Alas, men are not great at taking photos for every occasion, and I am left with far too few images for years of great memories. Each picture at the Carolina Cup represents many years of setting up the elaborate tailgates planned by the ladies, betting on horses, and sharing life stories. Greg and his pants. I am not even sure what to call those colorful things, but he may be the only man I know who could rock them so well. There are many other hunting trips for upland birds or tasty deer for each hunting picture. I have memories of friends stalking the field and trying to outshoot one another. It was an embrace of God’s creation.

Most egregiously, there are no pictures of my favorite memories with Greg. One would be when Greg taught me about scuba diving for Megalodon fossils and other historical artifacts. It’s highly technical and potentially dangerous diving in the black, rushing waters of the Cooper and Ashley Rivers. To find the reward of civil war artifacts, native American arrowheads, or the grand prize of an ancient shark’s tooth as big as a man’s hand was an experience like no other. With boats whizzing overhead, the current trying to drag us away, we drove steaks into the floor and pressed our faces into the river bed to see an inch through the black water. We didn’t talk about alligators because the thought would drive you crazy.

I don’t know how many full-sized teeth Greg has in his collection, but I have a few because of him. I also wear a fossilized tooth of a great white around my neck from that first trip. It has reminded me to live life to the fullest, and now it will take on a special memory of Greg. It is backed with a silver engraving of the dive trip where I found it. I intend to add his name to the engraving.

The other memory that no picture could do justice is of our many poker nights. Greg always had a professional poker setup. It was like Vegas coming to town. With a wry grin, he would break out the chips. While shuffling the deck with the practice of a street magician about to steal your watch, he would let everyone know he intended to empty our pockets. He often succeeded. Over bourbon and cigars, money traded hands, stories were told and retold, and life was good.

They say that men live lives of quiet desperation — that we often suffer in silence because, as leaders and protectors, we do not wish to be a burden on others. As we age, our friendships get fewer, and contact becomes less. Men are often left feeling like they have no one to confide in. We believe we are becoming a burden. I believe that purpose can be born of tragedy, and I hope any man reading this understands that you are not alone. There is always someone in your life who would leap into action if you reach out. Friends can go long periods without communicating, but the bond of friendship remains strong.

Many of you, like myself, have wondered what they could have done, what if this, or why not that? It serves no one to dwell on the multi-verse of possibilities that cannot come to pass. The only productive thing to do is to remember, out loud, the good man and great friend that Greg Foster was and to be ever-vigilant in showing love and kindness to those around us.