It is the new year. You might think this is the time to
leave old things behind, and move forward. Trust me, this was my thought,
too, as I started. The whole letting go process is a strange beast, and I
have had several conversations with friends recently about where our lives are
moving, keeping ourselves open to possibilities, and just being happy. I
like it, and am actually in a really good place.
Except for tactile memories that keeping pulling me back into the
past, and then (because why the fuck my brain works this way I don't know)
start spinning about every single memory associated with that time.
This is one of them. As this it the year of "bricks and
matches" (bricks to use as foundations and solid pathways, and matches to
burn the rest. No regrets.) I have an old memory to share. A brick. Truth is this story belongs to
one person, and a second person who I wanted to share it with. That isn't
going to happen any time soon because I don't fit in his world, but that does
not change my need to share it. Bricks and Matches. Foundation and
Letting go.
Sophomore year. I was 15. It was early November, just
after homecoming, and in my confused little world, I had a small group of
friends I was completely loyal to. Sophomore girls bonded by being busmates,
and periodically giggly, and senior boys that several of the girls were dating.
I actually think that is how we became friends with the boys at all.
I was NOT hooked up with any of the guys. I was invisible
and a tag along for the most part, and also for the most part, I liked it that
way. There was one guy in the group that was kinda like that, too.
Not invisible, but also not hooked up. He and I spent lots of time
together, not kissing, not holding hands, and not being giggly. We were
friends. Keep reading, because this distinction is important.
As football players (they all were, the boys, so of course), our
regular routine for that autumn was to go to football games.
The last game of the season was out of town. It was not an
important game and, like all out of town games, was not really going to be well
attended by our side. We, as a group, did not really attend the junior varsity
game, saving all of our attention for the main event and meeting up after the
game. So when my friend asked us (the group) to show up to this out of
town game, and to be sure to make it to the JV game, it seemed important. I paid attention.
Of our group, I was the only one, besides the guy, to show up by
the start of the JV game.
In the space of the maybe ¾ of an hour he and I were alone in our
section of the bleachers, one of those once-in-a-lifetime conversations
happened.
I know I specifically asked him why he wanted us there at this
game. If you had known him, you would
know he was one of the most reliable guys around, but not much of a
talker. Even in my childish immature
brain I knew that when he started talking, whatever he said was important. I
listened.
He told me he had to be at the game, start to finish, because his
brother was playing. His sophomore
brother. My friend would be graduating
and this game was the last time, ever, that he would be able to do that. As a
kid. As a highschooler with no responsibilities. With one small connection to
his kid brother. It was all about love.
And we talked about it.
About love. About sex. About responsibility. About truth, and friendship, and showing
up. It was just me, and him, and the
whole world. I heard in his words, and
his presence, that connection was important, even when we were too young and
too dumb to have words for it. We felt it, in a big way, and it was
everything. Nothing else mattered, no
matter what ever else we ended up doing, stay in the moment. And for that
magical 45 minutes, we did. Just
us. Wrapped up in a friendship we could
not possibly have known would happen, and could not possibly sustain. The moment, right then, was what mattered,
at least for me. It changed how I saw
lots and lots of things from that moment on, even when, as an adult, I
forgot.
If it mattered to him, I have no way of knowing, if he even
remembers the conversation at all.
Of course, I was young, and stupid, and could not possibly have
come up with the words to tell him I loved him. Could not possibly have come up with the words to tell him how
the conversation, short and intense, had just changed me. How him loving his brother, and then staying
present with me, in the only way he had, had registered in my immature little
world. I had listened and learned and
had no way to thank him.
So as things in my life this year have become more and more
amazing, this theme of staying present has resurfaced. Maybe I never lost it,
but that conversation three decades ago really has been a grounding spot. Some truth I forgot or ignored. And staying present to not be afraid of the
deeper meanings and connections has been amazing. It is freeing. And grounding.
And real. I am grateful. Turns out love is like that. My friend knew that. Actually I think we both did, right that
second, in the bleachers, in November of 1981.
A brick I did not even recognize, that is truly a foundation I cherish. I hope he knows that I love him, somewhere
deep. I hope his brother knows it, too.
