At a Funeral
It really was the three of them that kept me sane in high school. There was something about each of them that I admired—still admire. D’s boundless energy and enthusiasm, his unwillingness to do anything half-hearted. He would succeed because “no” or “impossible” don’t exist in his world. He taught me about not giving up. AB’s thirst for new experiences, the casual way he granted me a passion for music and beauty and that magical moment when you see something from a fresh perspective for the first time. He would succeed because he knew tomorrow was one more chance to begin the search again. He taught me about the intangibles in life, the things you can’t hold but that frequently are even more precious. Dr. Mac’s analytical steadfastness, the way he never stops asking how and why. He would succeed because he figured out the way to get it all was to give everything it’s season and leave just enough flexibility to withstand the sudden storm. He would teach me that being smart wasn’t about having a lot of brains, but using them, all the time.
Time passed from the early days in high school where all we had was one another, huddled close in hidden areas of the school to avoid devastating scrutiny, into the more carefree years of the upperclassmen when the older aggressors were all gone and the peers who may have hassled us at one point lost their appetite for conflict in a dawning realization that our youths were ending in the present tense and they hoped for some selective amnesia if not outright forgiveness under the unspoken pact of the shared-experience survivor clause. New friends would come, girls would (finally) come around, and our protective four-sided shield would no longer be necessary. I know I didn’t recognize the significance of the moment when that happened.
After the tour of duty we shared in the public education trenches, our paths would diverge. They always do. In some cases the divides would be physical, as geographic miles separated us. In others, it was just life, where distant colleges and separate paces to key post-high school events staggered our common ground. Perhaps there were some grievances that went un-aired, a slight or misunderstanding. I’ve struggled to grow past that know-it-all brat in fifth grade who still thinks it’s funny to tease a friend (but would certainly lack the courage to tease an enemy), still trying to quash the snooty punk who declares with a scowl that no one is going to tell him how to act, still working to rid myself of the blind fool behind my eyes who never sees the value of what I have until long after the point is moot. I wish I knew if I needed to apologize. I wish I knew what to apologize for. I could say I’m sorry for not being a better friend, if only I knew how to try harder. Maybe it’s just me that misses them. Maybe I always needed them more than they needed me. Maybe there’s nothing to it, there’s no divide, there’s no misunderstanding. Maybe this is just the way it goes. You win some, you lose some. Friends drift in, friends drift out.
AB’s father passed away recently. I hadn’t spoken to him in maybe five years. It wasn’t a cold silence. It wasn’t a heated, angry silence. It was just silence. D contacted Dr. Mac and told him the sad news. Dr. Mac told me about it, said he wanted to try and make it back. Turned out he couldn’t do it. But I could. The physical separation isn’t there. It only feels like a canyon.
I was trembling as I made my way through the dark-clad throng of people. Mr. B was a very well-liked man. I myself had liked him a whole lot. He taught me what very little I know about fishing. He let me help run drills at little league practice for AB’s younger brothers. He had an opinion about everything and he was always right, as far as I ever heard. He was outgoing and funny. The chapel was crowded, which I expected. I had butterflies in my gut, which I didn’t expect. What if AB was mad at me for some reason? What if he didn’t want me to be there? I knew I was drowning in my own stupid antisocial baloney, but I couldn’t stop. Nik was there, but I didn’t know how to let her help me not be miserable. We finally waded through the line and paused at the chapel doorway.
AB was right inside the door and when he saw me he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed my hand in his and yanked me into a giant hug. He told me he was glad I was there. I was suddenly glad I was there, too. I told him, “I’m sorry.” I wasn’t just referring to his dad. AB introduced me to his fianceé, and framed her round belly with his hands, introducing me to his daughter. She’ll be born in the fall. My eyes burned and I wished him congratulations. Nik hugged AB and then squeezed my hand as we found some seats near the back. I wanted to linger, to monopolize his time. It wasn’t appropriate. I knew that.
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