A Memory.

One time, I knew a curly headed little boy.

One time, I was sitting in front of his house with his older sister. If my memory were perfect, I’d tell you his age when this happened. I’d tell you how we found out he was camping out for the night in the back of his dad’s truck. I’d tell you what exactly it was that his sister did to scare him. I’d tell you what we had been talking about before she had decided it would be funny to do it. I’d tell you what time it was.

If my writing were good enough, I would describe him. I would tell you how he shrieked when he was scared. I would tell you the mixture of fear and humor on his face when it peaked out of the rear window. I would tell you how his voice shook when he came back later to ask her to stay the night with him because he was too scared to sleep out there alone now. I would tell you how he looked in the moonlight, running back inside the house to grab another pillow for her.

But my memory isn’t quite up to par. And my writing isn’t good enough to fake it.

There were years between this night and the last time I saw him. There were years when I came over and he was there. Years when I drove by his house and he was in the yard. Years where I saw him laugh and grow and become more than that scared little boy who couldn’t sleep alone that night.

But when he was gone, all those memories left with him. I can’t tell you where he was all those times. I can’t pick him out in the crowds of people that were there for all those memories with him. I can remember times when he was present, but I can’t place where he was.

When he was gone, he became immortalized to me as the little boy who couldn’t sleep without his sister that night.

When he was gone, suddenly the last memory I had of him was his beaming face in my rearview mirror as he watched his sister climb in the back of the truck with him to sleep.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about who gets to stay here, and who gets to leave. Despite my resistance, I’m getting older and people are a whole lot more fragile than they used to be.

I’m spending a lot more time these days watching loss happen all around me. Over the last few years, I have stood with a friend as she buried her family, I have hugged a mom who had just lost her children, I have read of babies passing away that have made me borderline hysterical for hours, I have written more sympathy cards than I had thought possible.

And every so often, I look around at the people I get to keep, and I feel guilty. Why do I get to keep my best friend, when you lose yours? Why is my family still in tact, when her’s isn’t?

Truthfully, there isn’t an answer to any of the why’s. I don’t know. For now, I’m blessed. In the future, there will come times where I will not be quite as blessed. So tonight, I pray for those who have to face loss, as they will in turn for me one day.

And for tonight, know that I love you. Loss will come when it comes, and if it comes sooner for me than I hope, I hope it’s a memory of love that I get to keep of you, or you get to keep of me.

One time, I knew a curly headed little boy. Why I got to stay when he didn’t, I’ll never understand. But how blessed was I to know him. How blessed was I to get to keep such pure memory of him. For me, he will always be the little boy who just wanted his sister to be there with him. And I believe not much has changed in that regard still now.

And long story short, I am so deeply sorry for your loss.