On January 27, 1964, the State of Texas got a little bit funkier, a whole lot funnier, and infinitely kinder as Mark Allen Daves made his debut in El Paso.
Mark’s preferred birthday was small and intimate. He usually wanted a steak dinner, and yellow cake with Mama Honey’s fudge frosting, or a chunk of New York cheesecake (“thick and dry”). He delighted in surprises and thoughtful gifts that he could unwrap, and it wasn’t a celebration unless his boys were included.
I don’t hold to the “happy birthday in Heaven” sentiment. But in the time since Mark died, I’ve begun to think that maybe our time here is just an introduction, a prequel to a state of being that’s so fine we can’t begin to comprehend it. If so, if “Heaven” is perfect and a place of contentment, then Mark is somehow still with us, still connected to us, because he could not otherwise be content.
To Mark Daves: to all he was, and all he is now, and all that remains.