A piece of paper
fluttered in the wind above my balcony as I opened my email. I clicked on my
latest letter and read it quickly. I shook my head.
“Do I remember
you?” I muttered. “Of course I remember you.”
It had been a
difficult week. One of my great heroes had passed away a few days earlier and I’d
been asked to speak at his upcoming funeral. The previous Saturday I’d gone to
a wedding alone for the first time in over decade.
My life had been
dramatically altered six months earlier. It hadn’t been pleasant. I’d spent
most of my time surviving and was only now starting to find something akin to
peace again.
But as I re-read
the email, I felt a quickening. Felt my stomach dance. It was something I hadn’t
experienced in a long time.
I took a deep
breath, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. She’d asked me if I remembered
her. Of course I had. Her email had caused my mind to overload on images.
Pictures from a long time ago, when we were both teenagers. Pictures that made
me smile. Would she consider meeting me for a coffee? The email hadn’t
suggested anything like that, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask. I hesitated only
briefly and began to type.
ONE WEEK EARLIER
Dust swirled in
the parking lot as I pulled up to the Luna Gardens. It was hot, and sweat rolled
down my face. The drive had taken longer than I’d expected, but I’d made it. I
leaned over and pulled my suit jacket from the hangar and stepped out of the
car. My “little sister,” my dear young friend who I’d known for nearly twenty
years, was getting married. As excited as I was for her, it felt strange to
move along the stone walkway to the grassy area where they’d set up the chairs
and find a seat by myself.
I found one in
the back. Couples surrounded me. I looked to the “altar,” where water splayed
off the beach cliffs just beyond the minister. Sun glinted from a perfect blue
sky. I checked the chair beside me. It was empty.
When the music
began to play and the bridesmaids began the long walk to the wooden arch, I
felt an ache form between my shoulder blades. I listened as my friend and her
groom delivered earnest vows to one another, their love unmistakable. It was in
every movement, every shift of their bodies. Tears rimmed my eyes. I’d never
seen my little sister so happy.
When the wedding
finished, I followed the crowd to the lounge. Dinner would be served in an
hour. I chatted with the family, delighted to see them, but not recognizing
anyone else, I took a beer into the parking lot to reflect.
As happy as I was
for my friend, I found myself filled with emotion. I’d said those same words,
those same vows, and yet the chair next to me was empty. I’d had time to
process things this past year, but I still did not understand. Why me? Why was
I alone? Why had my vows produced an empty chair?
A while later I wandered
back into the crowd of strangers. It wasn’t easy, but it was good to be
surrounded by happiness. And sitting amidst the revelry of new love, I smiled
at the hope and laughter and love around me. These were the good moments, I
thought. Life could be cruel, but it could also be incredibly kind.
This was a kind
moment.
It wasn’t to
last.
FIVE DAYS LATER
I sat in the
second row with my parents, clutching my papers nervously. The funeral home
buzzed with conversation. One of my great heroes had passed, and his son, a
lifelong friend, had asked me to speak. Though I knew the contents of my
speech, I was unsure whether I could deliver it without faltering. Mr. Lesco
had been such an important figure in my life. A man of towering intellect and
even greater compassion, he deserved the best. I’d practiced my delivery
numerous times in my apartment. I’d broken down each time.
The faces at the
funeral were familiar but not. Old teachers who’d become old. Old friends who’d
become middle aged. Old memories that seemed fresher than they were. We were no
longer young. I was no longer young. But we were there for a reason. When the
MC called my name, I steadied my breathing and strode to the podium.
When it was
over, I said good bye to my parents and retreated to my car. I opened the
window, the sun hot on my arm. They’d said I’d done a good job. That I’d
represented him well. That he would have been proud of me, (the greatest of
compliments) his son had assured me.
Tears slid down
my cheeks. I’d held strong through my speech and the funeral, but I could no
longer contain them. Mr. Lesco was gone, and no words – no matter how pretty or
sincere or well delivered – would bring him back.
I watched the
wind swirl dust from the parking lot. I understood the cycle of life.
Understood that people did not live forever and that death was not the end. Understood
the cruelty and kindness of life.
It did not
lessen the pain. Perhaps in time it would. But not now. Not tonight.
Mr. Lesco had
suffered from chronic arthritis, a crippling and painful disease. Despite that,
he had forged a life of love and compassion and empathy. I thought about what
that meant. About what that meant to his colleagues and friends. About what
that meant to me.
I thought about
the email I’d received the other night, the one that had caused my stomach to
dance. She had agreed to a coffee. Two decades had passed since I’d last seen
her, but I’d felt a pull I hadn’t expected. I rubbed my cheeks. Not tonight. As
much as I wanted to see her, I needed to grieve my hero. I pulled out my phone and
reluctantly cancelled our meeting.
In the past
week, I’d been to a wedding and a funeral. I’d gone to both alone. I knew that
I was being taught something, but what it was I had no idea. Was I supposed to
simply accept that life worked in cycles? That while things had gone badly for
me the past year, others were experiencing different moments of the same cycle?
That seemed
trite to me.
Yes, people
existed in different stages, but why did we have to deal with such madness
anyway? Why couldn’t we just live in a world that didn’t fluctuate so damned
much? Why did everything have to be so unpredictable?
Unless, of
course, you were in a kind stage. And if I was honest, I’d lived the greater
portion of my life in those stages. As one of my old pastors used to say in
regards to suffering, “this too will pass.” He was right, because I remembered other
times in my life where the pain had felt like forever. It had passed. And even
if I remained a bit scarred, hadn’t my old coach and mentor set the ultimate
example for me? I put the car into gear, my tires crunching over the gravel at
the edge of the parking lot.
…Nelson greeted
me at the door when I finally returned home from my parents. I picked him up and
rubbed his belly. His purrs reassured me that I was home. That I wasn’t alone. I
put him down and strolled out onto the balcony. Traffic roared below me. A gust
of wind snapped open my paperback on the small table beside the two deck
chairs.
The hours on the
road had given me the time I needed to grieve and reflect, enough to turn my
thoughts back to the email. I thought about the twist in my stomach when I’d
replied, the memories that had returned like they’d happened yesterday.
She’d told me
not to worry about cancelling at such short notice. Told me that she
understood. That it didn’t matter.
Maybe she was
right. Maybe it was just a chance encounter, a throwaway email from an old
friend kind enough to say some nice things about my writing. Maybe it was just
a missed coffee with someone that had once meant a lot to me.
I smiled and picked
up my cell.
Maybe not.
