Twenty years have gone by and I
cannot comprehend the volume of time that has past. Some days it feels like a mere
blink, and I am unchanged. And then the moments come where I feel as if I have
burned to the ground and rebuilt myself many times since the girl I was then.
The way time feels is not constant.
And yet, twenty years later, my
graduating class found ourselves together again. Many of us hadn’t seen each
other in that stretch of time and yet it did not stand between us. None of us
were the same, but we were familiar. We’ve all had life happen. We’ve all taken
uncertain paths in the search of knowledge, success, happiness. We’ve struggled
through dark days. We’ve felt more complex emotions than we could have imagined
when we were last together, both sorrow and joy, and all of the shades in
between. It alters.
It was a
good weekend with old friends. I wanted to know if everyone was happy. I wanted
to see that everyone was well.
Then there came the point in the
evening where we took a moment to acknowledge our classmates who are no longer
with us. It was a longer list than I expected. Some died through illness, some
through choice, others through horrible accident. I didn’t know them all very
well but I remembered them from our hallways. A few of them I had known about,
but two names in particular were a shock to me.
One was my neighbor and childhood
friend, Tracy Lee Flint, Jr. We called him T.J. growing up and he begrudgingly permitted
me to call him that during high school. We weren’t terribly close as teens, having
grown up and out in different directions. But neither of us forgot those days of
our childhood together, playing summer-long games of mock war and re-enacting Star Wars. With his dark hair he was
always Han Solo.
Another was my friend, Christina
Adkins, who we called Tina. She moved away, but before then she was one of my
five closest girlfriends. We were a tight bunch, all dealing with our own
personal turmoils together, spending most of our time outside of school
together. I hoped that someday we would all find happiness, but especially her.
And I hope she did before tragedy found her. Her ending broke my heart.
I excused myself. I splashed cold
water on my face to shake it off, so that I could be there with those still
living, and celebrate the times we shared. I was grateful to discover that the
many of the bonds we made then were still strong.
A week later, I sat on the shores
of Lake Ontario, a sadness sitting in my chest, with the desire to transform
that emotion into something else. We create rituals every day. They’re about
intention. That’s where the magic lives. So I conjured some to let the spirit
world know that I remembered those who were lost.
I used what was available around me,
my voice, the water before me, and what was washed ashore at my feet. I
collected pieces of driftwood, one for each of my fallen classmates, and walked
out to the end of the pier, the land falling away behind me. I waited until the
tides turned outward.
I repeated the names of the dead out
loud, including those of my childhood friends. I wished them peace. I wished
them freedom from pain. I wished their families a balm for their grief, and a
return to joy.
I sang a song to the water and the
wind. I wished my living classmates safe travels, health, and happiness to
their last breath. I know we will lose more as the years pass. It’s a part of
life, this living and dying business.
I watched the waves carry the water-polished
wood away. I watched the waves carry my prayers away, my heart brighter. I remember.
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