I never knew Stevenson Palfi. But I knew Steve Palfi. He was my best friend in 7th and 8th grade when we were both students at Avalon Park Elementary School on the South Side of Chicago. At the tail end of our Wonder Bread years, we hung out a lot, listening to 45s, watching tv, playing around, not doing much. I don't remember many specific incidents, but to this day I still have a sense of being connected to him. We parted ways more or less when we graduated from eighth grade. My family moved to the suburbs. Steve's family, always so warm and caring of me, stayed on Dorchester Avenue and he went off to the Lab School.

Tipped off by another childhood friend, I read this morning in the Boston Globe of Steve's death. I have been sad all day. I have never seen Stevenson's documentaries. I have never even been to New Orleans. I know next to nothing about his world as an adult, his community, or the musicians whose work he sought to celebrate and preserve. To me, he is just Steve, a friend, a buddy, a pal. While I make no claim to having suffered an immediate loss, I mourn for the playful, energetic, sometimes rambunctious boy who is gone and for all those whose grief is great at this time, especially Cindy and Al (who I remember fondly) and, of course, Nell.

Life is so fragile. Life is so precious.

SCOTT T. CUMMINGS