Young, Beautiful and Dead
Yesterday was a day of weird, sad synchronicity. I got a message early in the morning from A that her friend from High School had been among the raver kids killed on Saturday when a gunman opened fire at a house party in Seattle. She had been very close to him in school, so obviously it was a major blow, and I did what I could to comfort her. Then later that day, I found an old ignored message in my Myspace in-box from someone named Jill. I rarely ever log in to that site and never pay attention when I’m notified that I’ve received a message from someone I don’t recognize, so this particular message had been sitting there since November. When I opened it though, it turned out to be from the little sister of my friend E. E and I had been thick as thieves in Junior High. As cohorts at the bottom of the social food chain, we comforted, sheilded and supported each other through a lot of cruel shit. We even kissed once in my parent’s dining room. But then I moved away when I was 15, and that summer he died. His death has always been like embedded shrapnel for me, a shard left inside a healed-over wound that itches and makes it’s presence known whenever it rains. Not exactly on the surface, but never really gone. So to hear from his sister was a shock, and an unexpected joy. I have often wondered about E’s family over the years, and even considered contacting his siblings to let them know I’m still around, and that I still care. Ultimately I decided that would be creepy, so I left it alone. The last time I saw his sister she must have been about eight, so I’m surprised she remembered me at all. Her message was simple and direct. She asked if I remembered her. She said she liked the mag. I of course wrote back immediately, letting her know how glad I was to hear from her, but considering she sent the message to me four months ago, I ‘m worried I missed my chance. So I guess for both A and for me it was a sad, nostalgic day. A reminder of how suddenly things can change.