Maddy was always the person you wanted in your car if it broke down. Not because he was a mechanic or great with engines and tires, but because he would make you laugh no matter how long you were stuck on that road. He had a gift for making any and every situation feel epic, unique, and robust no matter what it was. Every memory I have of Maddy is steeped in adventure.
I can remember running around Boulder as kids, climbing buildings, reading books, sneaking into R rated movies, or being zombies in 29th street mall one night. Then as adults we would hike the seven sisters in SLO, hang out in the bowling alley when he worked for Apple, or debate politics and the state of the world in his living room over beers. Hell, he once rode his motorcycle three hours to my parents house for dinner, arriving with sweat-matted hair in a leather jacket with his trademark maniacal grin plastered on his face.
To me, Maddy is the younger brother I never had. Watching him grow up one step behind me in the scheme of things, I always glowed with pride when he regaled me with his exploits. Maddy did it better than I did at every turn. He learned from those around him, he left indelible impressions, and he felt things strongly, though he was not always able to express it. I was excited to see Maddy grow up, become a father, to share in his journey as it shadowed and outgrew mine.
It's been said that a man dies two deaths in this world; one when he draws his last breath, and one when the last memory of him fades from humanity. Though Maddy's first life was short, his second will last for generations.
May you always be remembered with the love you showed the rest of us Maddy,