-A Beyond Momma post in honor of a friend-
Once upon a time you wrote me a letter, back when people sent real words through the mail and addressed actual envelopes with stamps. I still have the letter in a box with my college memories. "I think you should send every story you can to publishers," you wrote. "You're talented. It made me proud to read your work in Schmidtberger's class." It's hard to find others with an appreciation for writing and literature. You understood those things, like the other English majors in our small friend group in college. We thought we were pretty cool, didn't we? Sitting under the trees with Dr. Conlon, talking about Cervantes. I loved that you appreciated my weirdness. You once wrote down the lyrics to 'The Land of the Lost' TV show theme song, just because I asked you to. "Marshall, Will and Holly on a routine expedition..." I don't even think you questioned why.
Fast forward years later, we met up at a garden center, looked at flowers and talked about The Cloisters. I was grateful for your friendship. There weren't many like you- kind and funny and thoughtful, interested in growing vegetables or flowers, or whatever we were looking at together that day.
Skip ahead years later. You were living in the city, I was out in the country. You weren't in Georgia or South Carolina. Maybe you wanted to be. I was married and you were divorced. We both had sons and they had the same name, coincidentally. We talked about getting the old college gang together for laughs. "We should make it a yearly thing," you suggested. I thought maybe in Weehawken, maybe Hudson Yards. You said, "We'll find a place- something literary." But then the pandemic got in the way. It got in the way of everything, didn't it?
Yesterday I thought of you, wondered if you would be willing to read the book I've been writing. I finally finished my novel! Would you still be proud to read it, even decades later? I needed to find people willing to read my novel and give me their honest opinion. Literary opinions. We liked that word, literary. You -always so witty and smart- I knew you could do this. I guess I could've texted you or emailed, but we hadn't talked in a while, so I decided to message you from your Facebook page instead. And there it was. An obituary link posted with your smiling face on it. "You got hacked," I chuckled to myself. "I'm not clicking on that."
But you didn't get hacked.
(of course you didn't, you're too smart for that).
My gentle friend.
What happened?
The thought that you were no longer in this world was suddenly crushing. Why? I hadn't seen you physically in years. I hadn't spoken to you lately on social media. Why does this hurt so bad?
Because you were one of the good ones.
You loved your son - your words illuminated in your messages when you spoke of him. You were kind to everyone you met. What did people say on your Facebook page? 'The best,' 'one of a kind,' 'good person,' 'a great friend and an even better person,' 'one of my funniest teammates ever,' 'an honor to know you in any capacity.' Don't we all hope to have this kind of response when we leave this earthly plane? Just...not so soon. Why did it have to be so soon?
And this comment that someone left on Facebook, so poignant and true. I wish I could hug the man who wrote it, but of course, I don't know him: Every day is Hiroshima (the weather was sweet that day). You never know if you’ll go slowly, or if your sunny day will randomly turn you to dust. A good person lived a good life. I did not know you very well, but I do know you were loved. That only happens for good reasons. Thanks for being one of the good ones." That is so very true. You were one of the best. The world was a better place with you in it, and even when we did not speak to each other, it was a comfort knowing that we were under the same big sky. I could message you whenever I needed you.
But now you're gone.
I am ashamed to admit that I did not go to your funeral. I didn't think I belonged there, with your real-life friends and your family. Me, the outsider who only knew you briefly eons ago, only kept in touch with you on social media and snail mail, when that was a thing. What place would I have amidst real relationships? When the time is right I will make a pilgrimage to your resting place on my own- a pilgrimage, like the characters in the stories we read in college. A pilgrimage like Kerouac or Chaucer (I think you would appreciate that reference). And maybe I'll bring some flowers like the ones we saw at the garden center, or some small token that I know you would have appreciated if I could have handed it to you myself (I would much rather hand it to you myself, you know).
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I promise you that I won't just visit your grave and cry. That's poetic, yes, very literary. But I came up with another idea that I think you would like. I promise to read 59 books before I turn 60, in your honor (that gives me, like, ten years, which is more than sufficient, right?). I have some books on the list that you recommended to me yourself (and, gosh, they look scary and dark, but I will read them because you said they were good). And while I read I will have R.E.M. playing in the background, or maybe The Replacements, and I will think about happier times, when we were both young and your smile was bright and your laughter echoed in my head.
Rest in peace, my dearest friend. Thank you for crossing paths with me. I know we will cross paths again someday.
But not yet.
(*I stole that last line from Gladiator. But you already knew that, didn't you?)
Post Playlist: The Woodpile by Frightened Rabbit, The Great Beyond by R.E.M., Along for the Ride by Vigilantes of Love
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