A tribute.
Today is the birth date of a dear friend of mine who passed away nearly two years ago. He would be 31 this year. Just like me.
He was wonderful, flawed, and complex, as we all are, and truly unique. I feel the loss of him often and deeply. I regret sincerely that my son will never know him.
But he's still with me, and I'd venture to say I'm not alone in feeling that way. Just last night while driving home, a song he used to play for me came through my iPod, and I smiled to myself. It's a goofy folk song that pokes fun of Massachusetts towns and signage, called "Entering Marion." The singer manages innuendo and double entendre with impressive rhyme schemes, and with his tongue firmly in his cheek. My friend had that ability, too.
I remember his 21st birthday, ten years ago, sitting on the porch at one of our favorite watering holes with some friends, while he ordered drinks, and ate mud pie. I have a picture of him that day, and you've never seen anyone look more apathetic. He joked he was tired of all the trite photos of drunk 21 year olds ordering drinks and doing shots. (This is not to say that he objected to the drinks and shots and tomfoolery! Just the photos...) So, when I broke out the camera, he put his face in his hand and sighed. He was right, I remember that photo vividly, don't I? Long after the drunken photos have faded into my albums.
I remember so many other times. And then I have to remember that he's gone.
Mostly, though, I find that when he comes to mind, I talk to him. I guess it's equivalent to calling an old friend once in a blue moon, just to say hello. I try to leave my mind clear during these one-sided conversations, and every now and again I hear a reply in my head that carries his voice. Make of that what you will. My subconscious echoing his lost voice? Something more spiritual?
Either way, I find comfort in those conversations. And I'm writing about him, on his birthday, because telling someone else about him keeps the memories alive for another year.
Happy birthday, my friend. I miss you.
He was wonderful, flawed, and complex, as we all are, and truly unique. I feel the loss of him often and deeply. I regret sincerely that my son will never know him.
But he's still with me, and I'd venture to say I'm not alone in feeling that way. Just last night while driving home, a song he used to play for me came through my iPod, and I smiled to myself. It's a goofy folk song that pokes fun of Massachusetts towns and signage, called "Entering Marion." The singer manages innuendo and double entendre with impressive rhyme schemes, and with his tongue firmly in his cheek. My friend had that ability, too.
I remember his 21st birthday, ten years ago, sitting on the porch at one of our favorite watering holes with some friends, while he ordered drinks, and ate mud pie. I have a picture of him that day, and you've never seen anyone look more apathetic. He joked he was tired of all the trite photos of drunk 21 year olds ordering drinks and doing shots. (This is not to say that he objected to the drinks and shots and tomfoolery! Just the photos...) So, when I broke out the camera, he put his face in his hand and sighed. He was right, I remember that photo vividly, don't I? Long after the drunken photos have faded into my albums.
I remember so many other times. And then I have to remember that he's gone.
Mostly, though, I find that when he comes to mind, I talk to him. I guess it's equivalent to calling an old friend once in a blue moon, just to say hello. I try to leave my mind clear during these one-sided conversations, and every now and again I hear a reply in my head that carries his voice. Make of that what you will. My subconscious echoing his lost voice? Something more spiritual?
Either way, I find comfort in those conversations. And I'm writing about him, on his birthday, because telling someone else about him keeps the memories alive for another year.
Happy birthday, my friend. I miss you.
posted by Cameron | 4:28 PM
1 Comments:
I am coming up to an anniversary of the death of a dear friend, and I too talk with him. He was older when he died, suddenly, in a car accident, and we had a special friendship. I also hear his words somehow, and a presence that is comforting. Wishing you peace, friend. samm
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