You come to accept this fact sooner or later in life. My hope is that you are untouched by the notion until much, much later in life.
When I was younger (five? ten?), I had a friend who had just moved to town. She was nice and she smiled at me and, if you know anything about me at all, it’s that I love people who are nice to me and smile at me. That’s all it really takes for me to like you. She had cornrows and went to my school and we started becoming friends.
Well, not long into our friendship, she died. When a child dies, there’s a particular blackness about it. She drowned in the neighborhood pool. I went to her funeral. Lots of people cried, but I didn’t.
I tend to bottle things up. A fucking lot.
Yesterday, I learned of another friend of mine who had died. I’m 22. He was damned near 50. A huge age gap, but he may as well have been my age. He was nice to me – he smiled at me – he made me laugh – we had the most outrageous conversations. He could make anyone feel better about anything. He lived on chocolate, doughnuts, chocolate doughnuts and Mountain Dew.
He was in the process of being medically discharged from the Army – he had a laundry list of things wrong with him, and yet he was always smiling about something, even if he had everything in the world to complain about (which he often did).
He was on leave.
He died on Father’s Day.
He was my friend and now he’s gone and I don’t even know how to… accept that.
It fucking sucks, but, you know, friends die. Every day. Every hour. Every minute.
It’s only noon and I’ve already had an awful day, but at least I’m around for it, you know? Fuck…