Sept 2011:
This Spring, I lost one of my best friends. His death has made me somber. Less risky. More appreciative and patient.
I think of him everyday, and wonder why it was him and not me.
We would talk about everything. About life, love and loss. Our long, inconsequential lives. The hopelessness of it all. And despite the futility, he would always try to change things. Volunteering and teaching. Changing minds and inspiring through his students. His teachings and words were powerful. But the world still ate him from the inside.
We’d talk about death as though its so distant, when it was really just a short life to be summarized in some newspaper obituary. Tossed and recycled. An end that we never see coming. And when it does, we can only hope that others will make us comfortable. Remember us for longer than it takes to drink that morning coffee.
I went to see him the day before he died. Took his dog to the hospice center to say good-bye. The same stinking, stupid dog that ran with us through the woods on the weekends. The same dog that lay with him in bed and guarded his family and home.
My friend couldn’t speak or see or move, but I still brought the dog. Grabbed his hand and set it on the fur. Moved it back and forth as though he were petting him for one last time.
I don’t know if he felt it. Maybe it was for me. Or for the dog. A way for us to say goodbye.
I like to think he would have done the same for me.
No…I know he would.
