RICKEY KEHN

If you had even one real conversation with Rickey, you knew — his heart wasn’t just good, it was rare. The kind of good that didn’t make a big show of itself. The kind you felt in the way he listened, the way he laughed with you, the way he always seemed to know when someone needed just a little more kindness than they were asking for.

It wasn’t the grand gestures that made Rickey unforgettable. It was the everyday moments — the simple, easy way he made you feel like you mattered. Like whatever weight you were carrying, you didn’t have to carry it alone.

There are a thousand memories you’d want back if you could. But if his all his family had was just one moment to relive, it would be the chance to look him in the eye and say it plain and simple, the way love sometimes needs to be said: “ I love you. I miss you so, so much."

Because the missing doesn’t fade. It stretches. It grows into the quiet parts of the day, it sneaks into old songs and familiar roads and the kind of laughter that catches you off guard. It reminds you how big someone’s presence really was when they’re no longer standing beside you.

Rickey would have wanted people to remember his heart. Not the hard days. Not the mistakes. But the good — because there was so much of it. More than he ever gave himself credit for. The kind of goodness that doesn’t need to be repaid, only passed forward.

His story isn’t finished. It keeps beating in the lives he touched. It echoes in the spaces he left behind, and it stays alive in every "I love you" spoken into the quiet, hoping somehow he still hears it.

Because love like that never leaves. It just changes shape. And Rickey’s heart — that good, honest heart — is still here, woven into everything and everyone he loved. Always.