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During last July’s 5.8 earthquake, 3-year-old Bronwyn told her 1-year-old sister, “We’re going for a wiggle.” READ MORE
Editor's Note
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Michael was the boy I have thought about most in the 33 years since I graduated ninth grade at the private school I shared for a long time with a group of then-close friends. I had always hoped that he, more than any of us, would find happiness in his life. He was the weakling who was picked on, the thin one I protected from bullies, though probably not enough. I remember the boy's science day presentation of crystallized and polished rocks. Precious. And the red ant running frantically from the second hand inside his wristwatch. Interesting. So recently, when the church that supports the little school held a reception for our former science teacher and beloved athletic coach - he was retiring after 40 years - I did what I needed to do 20 years ago. I picked up the phone, called information, and wrote down Michael's number. He did not live a long life. His mother, who answered the phone, told me Michael suffered from schizophrenia and died a few years ago. That call makes me want to connect again with Jeff, Kris, Joe and Pat, Danny, the twins Kevin and Brian, Betsy, Sheri, Kim, Chip, Devon, Kevin the cop, Gary, Tim, Mara, Debbie, Lana, my cousin Simone. I'm working on it. I've talked to some; seen others. As I drove home the other night, Cat Stevens' words caught in my throat: "You will still be here tomorrow, but your dreams may not." From my recent journey to connect with long-lost friends, there is much happiness. But when life stretches long into the night, things change. Divorce. Parents who have died. Illness. Loneliness. Drugs. The biggest joy in this little reunion was in seeing Roger. Shortly after the last time I saw him, in 1981, he came down with cancer, and nearly died. In the disconnect during my youth, I had been under the impression, until five years ago, that he had indeed died. I called him then and remember thinking in awe: "Roger, I thought you were dead." A few weeks ago, I actually shook his hand. And in the flesh, I flashed back to Michael. We spend a lot of time within the pages of this magazine, and in conversation, focusing on the beginnings of life, the teen years, and the challenge of college. I wonder, though, which period of time determined who I became. I grew from a 5-year-old to ninth-grader at this school. It was on this campus, at this school co-founded by my grandmother, that I learned most about friendship. I wonder about those wonder years as I watch my still very young children play with friends they may, or may not, be attached to for a very long time. Somewhere in that mix, inevitably, there will be a Michael. And a Roger. I want my children to know that the moment will be fleeting. If they want to show who they are, and remember all that they achieved as a friend, they need to do so now. Life, after all, includes regret. As a parent, you spend so much time making sure your kids learn to do the right thing that you forget to keep asking the eternal question - the one that teaches you life lessons - about whether you did the right things. "Because my children will still be here tomorrow, but their dream friends, like Michael, may not." |
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