Someone I was close to a million years ago died last Friday, and my heart imploded when I found out yesterday.
I broke up with him in my early 20s, twice. I don’t know why. He was genuinely the kindest person I had ever met, and I think maybe I couldn’t measure up to that. I needed a fight or something. I truly don’t know, because I truly loved him. And I sobbed when I left him.
And life moved on. I went off to college, married a wonderful man, had kids, built a life, and never looked back. Until yesterday, when I discovered that Mike’s life on Earth had come to an end. Suddenly everything stopped.
Earth feels off kilter. Did the axis shift? Things are hazy and my chest is heavy. My eyes keep leaking.
I don’t smoke anymore. But yesterday I bought a pack of Camels. Packed it. Peeled off the clear plastic wrap. Pulled out the crisp paper that folds over the cigarettes so neatly. Lit a cigarette and took that euphoric first drag. I sat in the drive in the heat and watched ants crawl across the rocks while listening to music that let loose a flood of memories. Sitting in the warm morning sun smoking a cigarette in his blue Chevy Nova with Led Zeppelin playing on the radio while he ran into the store for bacon and eggs–I’m not sure why that memory sticks. I felt so free from worries then. No life struggles behind me. No thought of the future. Just the now. Every moment lived in the now.
And that old house on Willis near downtown. Painting graffiti on the black walls of the black-light hallway. Taking shots of tequila on my birthday in that tiny kitchen. He patiently driving up and down Greenville Avenue waiting for me to decide what I wanted to eat. His adorable, irresistible smile. Jamestown park in the early years. Deep Ellum in the later ones. And the variety of experiences of which our circle of friends have zero evidence, thankfully, other than memories.
As I sat on the cooler watching those ants crawl across the rocks in the drive, I felt a profound sense of time, how it passes for some things and not for others. The ants will come and go. The rocks, the dirt, the hard crust of Earth that has been here seemingly forever will be here long after Mike and you and I and everyone else are gone. What matters, what really matters, is fleeting. Rocks have some level of importance, but isn’t it ironic that the most precious of earthly things are exceedingly temporary?
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