Dave’s kind of kindness

A eulogy for my brother, David D’Andrea. Delivered at the Caboto Club on Oct. 6, 2025

Originally published on Medium.

I would like you to forget.

I’d like you to tune out. Then tune in and turn on.

Tune out the hate, rage and evil in the world. Tune out warmongers, poisoned politics, mass shootings, righteous rage.

Tune out the people who have betrayed you, hurt you, abandoned you.

I’d like you to tune into what’s around you. Who’s around you. To the goodness that surrounds you.

And I would like you to turn on to … kindness.

Dave’s kind of kindness: The sweet kind of kindness that flowed out from him to loved ones and friends and strangers.

That’s the thing about Dave. That’s the thing that people who knew him (or even those who met him once) had to say about Dave: he was kind.

It was his superpower.

My brother showed it so many times and in so many ways over the years.

Let me give you one example. Years ago, my son and a friend of his wanted to see the band Metallica at The Palace in Auburn Hills. He was too young to drive then so I asked Dave if he would keep me company that long night and come along for the road trip. Of course, he agreed. Good-naturedly, unreservedly and enthusiastically.

We spent the time chatting at a coffee shop and roaming a nearby mall before we picked up my son. After the concert, Dave and I walked up to the doors of The Palace where smoke from the dry ice machines poured out into the hallway. My son, who had shoulder-length rock and roll hair at the time that frizzed up from the smoke, walked out and we asked him what he thought of the show.

Wide-eyed and a bit stunned, he said: “It was better than God.”

Dave laughed. Oh, boy did he laugh! That loud, full-throated, one-of-a-kind Dave laugh. (You know just how loud he could roar.) He never forgot my son’s reaction or comment.

And weddings. Him coming up to me on my wedding day to say the Montreal Canadiens were about to win the Stanley Cup. I remember Dave on his wedding day, the way he and Jessica treated guests with grace and love and affection. And kindness. They posed for photos and he looked like a movie star. Both of them.

Through the years, he retained his good looks along with his dark (almost) full head of hair. (Yes, I’m jealous … of both my brothers’ hair.)

At my daughter’s wedding a few years ago, Dave danced with Julia. She was one of the flower girls and he was so proud of the daughter he adored along with Jessica.

Dave always remembered birthdays.

His greetings — to our mother, brothers and everyone — were always so warm and welcoming.

His smile too. Near the end, he would grin and his eyes lit up a little when he saw you from his hospital bed, or coming down the hall to his room in Hospice.

So, so many random acts of kindness. A thousand-thousand acts of kindness. That was Dave.

Quiet and reserved, he would light up at concerts or while talking about music or sports or family. We watched episodes of Taxi and The Twilight Zone and agreed they don’t make ’em like that anymore. Also, that The Godfather was the greatest movie of all time; that was irrefutable.

I remember talks with Dave about the Orange Menace in Washington and what he did that day that was in the news. Dave would shake his head and remain speechless: he could not comprehend that level of depraved egotism and cruelty, or those who supported him. I couldn’t help him understand because I can’t figure it out myself.

I said kindness was my brother’s superpower and it’s true. He was the embodiment of the ancient philosopher’s words: “Be kind for everyone is fighting a hard battle.”

But Dave’s kind of kindness reached another level entirely during his hard battle against cancer in the last two years. He fought it with a quiet grace, in keeping with his reserved nature. He accepted his fate and met each battle and setback with dignity and courage. He refused to alarm loved ones and absorbed each challenge before moving forward and continuing the fight.

I told him he was my superhero. He was my younger brother, but it was me who looked up to him as a hero. He will always be my hero.

We are all sharing the heavy, heavy weight of grief. It’s true, that’s the price of love. It’s the kind of grief that can weigh on you and hold you down — like on a see-saw. But on the other side is an even heavier presence and that is one of love and kindness. It balances you, perhaps even lifts you up to higher heights.

It’s Dave’s kind of kindness. A sweet, gentle and loving kindness. The kind of kindness that wrapped itself around everyone he met like a big hug. A smiling kindness. The kindness that greeted you whenever you called with a friendly, “Heyyyyy.”

Please remember Dave and his kindness. Please, for Dave’s sake, be kind.