A letter to
a friend who will unfortunately never be able to read it:
Dear
brother, dear old friend,
I didn’t
think I would be writing you under these circumstances. To be honest, it never
would have crossed my mind as a possibility. I suppose that should be
educational in itself?
I hoped
(probably better described as “expected”) to check in with you again, sometime
a few years out of college so that I could hear how well you would be doing -
working at some international firm, with a girlfriend who entertains the ideas
of marriage in your mind. Whether I would react with pure joy or react with a
tinge of jealousy, I would at least have the certain satisfaction of knowing
that you would be a guy who deserved it.
I remember
and hold on to the memory that the last thing I said to you - as I moved away
from our shared domicile to a place that I know was a healthier environment for
my companion and I at a trying time - was that I had the good fortune and
decency to let you know that I respect you, despite juvenile drama at the time.
During my
first year at a school where I knew no one, you had the approachability of
engaging with an old friend when talking with me who (was then a stranger) – a
quality I subconsciously use to differentiate friends from friends I would
genuinely like to take after.
I’ll admit
that when we lived together, the discrepancies in our living preferences led me
to stress and even to act inexcusably dickish (I’m sorry) – but that doesn’t
change that I still hold respect for who you are and your living memory. I
wouldn’t live with some of my best friends for similar reasons.
You are the
first person I know to have truly been not merely waving but drowning.
I can’t claim that if we had talked about your dire state that the
communication could have been a panacea by any means, but I still wish we had
chatted between our last encounter and when you left us. I’ve been sailing on Black Waters for some
time as well - perhaps our journeys would have been a bit easier to bear if we
had a comrade to correspond with about the unfair waves.
Since you’ve
left, I’ve come to understand a little more about loss(“No you don’t, Steven,
you’ll never know””I’ll try”), and more about what is behind someone choosing
to leave this world. I heard a story about a suicide attempt, where the friend
of the person asked him why he was provoked to walk in front of that truck.
“Isn’t the excruciating pain enough of a deterrent?” the friend asked, to which
the man who attempted suicide responded: “yes, it was painful, but not as painful
as the feeling that made me walk in front of the truck in the first place.”
Your
departure helped prompt me to better examine how navigable my own waters were.
I know you must have been suffering more, or perhaps were less selfish in
coping(statement about me, not about suicide), but I still wish I could have
pointed out that you settled on a permanent solution for temporary problems.
Your ‘memorials’
are shrouded with the false mythologies you told me that you rejected. This
might have annoyed you a little bit – but I know you would have come to the
all-reaching truth that whatever approach someone has to navigating the ocean
is okay, so long as it is well-intended. People will turn to anything to feel a
little connection again with those they lost.
You should
know - friends of yours, better than I, have started yearly celebrations that
both celebrate your memory and support the causes you championed. No matter how
you might have evaluated your life when you left, you have currently
accomplished something better than the highest palace in heaven – your life is
making direct impressions on the universe. Like ink in water it is inevitable –
your impression will swirl around in all directions, until time will forever
have the stamp of your existence. You live eternal, my friend.
Before I say
a final goodbye, I wanted to tell you how I remember something you taught me.
Back in college, when my cross-country running discipline was stronger, you
told me about the tradition of Cherokee warriors who in long-distance treks
would hold water in their mouths to carefully stave off dehydration. Every time
I practice that while running, I think of you. And I can’t help but extend the
tale into a larger metaphor – I believe that you would encourage me to keep
running through the desert, ready
to bear much, like the camel. I mourn that our paths will not cross again.
Sincerely,
The worst
best roommate,
Steven
