One of the first pictures I recall seeing as a child crosses over as one of my most primitive memories. A green machine speeding along a paved pebble driveway at the furious pace of two miles-per-hour, as fast as the six volt battery could power it to go. A side-by-side with a yellow dash that was the first taste of freedom I felt at the ripe age of three.

Thinking back to that memory, it is but a brief snapshot into the past, a glimpse where I can pick out certain fine details with a haze blending along the peripheries of those four wheels and cab. I can picture it in first-person, staring at the downward sloped driveway, scared and excited of what might happen. I also see it in third-person, looking down at the green machine from above the end of the driveway.

Whether it’s the memory or the actual picture, which was framed in my first childhood bedroom for years, there is someone beside me, experiencing that fear, that thrill, that excitement for the first time, too. Anytime I put my mind back in that brief moment, I hear the laughter to my right. I see the striking blonde, curly hair shining in the afternoon sunlight. I feel the love and affection we shared, knowing not much more than we were cousins and that we always laughed with each other. Life was just that simple back then.

I was the older cousin – the big cousin – it was my job (and my privilege) to drive first. I was the protector, the driver, and in some sense, the one responsible for this moment in time. Time.

That snapshot into our lives was beautiful in its purity and how it exemplified the human experience – we loved and we laughed. But Time is no one’s friend, but a monster chasing each of us, nipping at our heels at a pace that speeds up as we slow in age. Time wasn’t even in that picture, instead lingering outside the scope of the camera, but still present, waiting.

From that driveway, that picture, that memory, there is a large gap of time. Time. Walker and I didn’t talk or associate for over a decade, not because of our own doing but because of instances far beyond the control of children. There were no pictures taken, no memories to look back on, just two strangers living separate lives with a primitive memory that meant so much, but of what I knew so little.

A decade passed by – Time – but family reunited. Through bits of awkward silences and unsure of how to show affection to those you know are family but don’t feel it, Walker was the lifeline to reintegrate me back into the family. I remembered the picture. I remembered the laugh. That striking blonde hair had grown darker over time, but everything else about him was the same.

We hosted the first family Christmas with us back into the fold, and Walker made sure to bring something for all the cousins to have fun with – his Xbox 360. Always full of good intentions, he packed it up and was excited to play some video games with us, something we could all relate to. In the downstairs gameroom, he commanded the floor and was setting up the system, only for him to turn on the power, and a bright red ring circled the power button.

It was an issue only rumored in our young minds, but none of us had ever experienced. One of the most infamous signals that a console was doomed in gaming history, the Xbox 360’s “Red Ring of Death.” We all panicked, and Walker ran up to get his dad, my Uncle Tim, who’s response was as stern as you’d expect: “You got the Red Ring of Death on my Xbox 360?” Uncle Tim made him pack it up and put it in the car. We spent the rest of the day playing hide and go seek outside with the rest of the cousins.

Being back in the family fold was nice. Walker was more than just the laughing blonde in the side of a green side-by-side, but he was family, and he was a friend. We saw each other most holidays, and even though family gatherings were less awkward, at times they could still feel that way for any number of reasons. He remained my lifeline. I followed him around any of the houses where we’d celebrate – he was essentially driving me around now.

Pictures were sparse throughout the years, occasionally with a Collier family picture here or there. A few stick out in particular: the one in Bud Walton Arena after a Collier family outing to a Razorback basketball game, a Christmas picture at Uncle Greg and Aunt Polly’s house in Springdale with everyone spread out around the living room, and a picture in front of the Christmas tree at Uncle Tim and Aunt Lisa’s house in Hot Springs.

I never looked too closely at any of those pictures, but Time was creeping closer and closer in each one. We were all getting older, but not old enough for the fear of Time to set in yet. Time was supposed to be distant enough away as a cautionary tale of a happening beyond the comprehensible future, nothing more.

Hundreds of more pictures, a wedding day, a son, Time stops for no one, but Walker didn’t fear Time. He looked at Time with his beaming smile, full of life and full of joy, and lived on his terms with his family. When cancer came, his sprits stayed high. He had a snow day with Sawyer and Selena, he stayed engaged in everything he did, and Time was an afterthought.

The present is what mattered. Time was closing in, but in the many pictures of Walker, Selena, and Sawyer in recent months, Time is nowhere to be found. Just a young family, full of love.

I cannot remember a time where I ever saw Walker without a smile on his face or a meeting where he didn’t let out his hearty laugh on multiple occasions. He encapsulated what it means to live a life worth living, and living a life with joy. He loved life.

He was quick to hug, but would still give you a firm handshake. He was quick to love. He was full of passion for so many different things, and was the quintessential free spirit.

Over the years, whenever I thought about Walker, that pebble-paved driveway with the side-by-side is what I associated him with. I’ll always associate him with that, but now with so much more. I look forward to the day I see Walker again, knowing he’ll be there to greet me with his patented smile, curly locks, Razorback tattoo on his forearm, and a warm embrace. I have a feeling he’ll start laughing and say, “There’s no green machine, we’re a little too big for that now.”

I love you, cousin, and I will miss you dearly.