I know this is belated, but we love you back

It's been a year. If you were around a year ago today, you may have been praying for my soul. This was to be expected. I was a wreck. Not in the attractive poetic sense. I am happy to say that things are far better. Today I sit in class bored out of my mind, worried of the future (or in this case, my lack of future beyond my room at home and the unemployment line). But comfortable in my own skin. I have come to terms with 95% of the demons in my life, and have replaced them with friendships, sensitivity analyzes, and garbage trucks in surprisingly equal amounts. I am often nostalgic about the past, but never about this past. This past is better off past-tense...where it belongs. Life is never measured by how one handles their vices, but in how quickly they handle each particular vice. Everyone has something, and everyone deals. But some deal in months, others weeks. Still others deal in years, in decades, in lifetimes. How quickly one deals with their issues will ultimately dictate a large portion of your life. This is all part of the process, changing rates from years to months, from weeks to days, hopefully.

But this is not about me, not explicitly at least. I am self(ish)-aware enough to provide implicit windows. Even in reflection. Even in effigy. In this note, even in eulogy.

I have dealt with death in the past. I'm not really at liberty to say how well I handle it generally. I would like to think whatever front I put up is at least adequate. But I've had three deaths that I don't think I'll ever get over. Uncle Kerry will always exist as a reminder of what I will never understand about humanity. Mike will always exist as a reminder of human frailty. But Tom, his is a reminder of these things I have tried to leave behind. Since it is ultimately a reminder of personal limitations, of unrequited ignorance -- it still keeps me up at night. It is what keeps me typing in the early morning hours.

I can't characterize my friendship with Tom. In one sense, we never really went anywhere. We had an eighteen month period, from 16.5 - 18 where we were arguably inseparable. We both worked around thirty five hours a week during this time period. Consider sleep took up forty nine hours a week and school twenty four, there was a good chance we saw each other more than we saw our families during this time period. But then comes college, and other friends, and other dorm rooms, and other realities. We should have never talked to one another again. But this didn't happen. We kept intersecting. Once a year, twice a year. A phone call here, a well placed visit to my work there. He was always online. There was always solace online. Until one day he wasn't. Until one day he instant messaged me and I decided the comfort, nay, the necessity, of inebriation outweighed the simple response of hello. He would never be online again. And this is why his death still hurts. It was compounded by choice, the choice that my selfishness could continue to exist alongside friendships. Friendships that are not immutable. Friendships that answer to forces beyond their control.

But there's always this other sense. The sense that we lived an entire lifetime in tiny increments. Increments of register cleaning. Increments of (horrific, oh how horrific) song writing. Increments of choreographed dancing. Increments of concerts, both large and small. Increments of acceptance, of the knowledge that seventeen year-old thoughts could be said and not judged. Increments of sustained dialogue across state lines. But this sense only came postmortem. It took a death to realize what should have been clear.

Part of it, though, is that he saved my life. Literally. Choices he made ended up saving my life. Had he chosen differently, I would surely be dead. I couldn't reciprocate. What if I had chosen differently? What if I had responded to that late night IM? Would this note be necessary? In his final act, Tom would show me what I had become. And he would direct me down a path that would save my life again. Again. But that was Tom. It was always Tom.

Today I was sitting in the very back of the bus on my way to class. It gets crowded, oftentimes standing room only. Every seat in the front of the bus was full. It was like this when the bus stopped, and two mothers with their children came on the bus. Each had a large contraption, not unlike a large hand truck. Each mother was clearly struggling with their things. Not one person offered a hand. Not one person offered their seat. Tom would have. Tom would have taken the hand trucks and found a place for them as well. He would have played with the kids, not only because they would enjoy it, but because he would have known the mother's needed the brief reprise. But Tom wasn't on the bus, so none of this happened. Everyone just looked straight ahead, wholly unconcerned. They both struggled, but eventually made it to the back of the bus. I just sat, with my memories of Tom as a person, and of Tom as my friend, and all I could think of was...

Why?