Tonight it's not about me.
We were boys when we met.
He was built of wavy dark hair, rosy cheeks.
The reddest of lips that couldn't belong to anyone but that smiling youth;
An honest look that instantly spoke of intelligence and light.
That was him.
The fiercest intelligence tempered with the kindest ways.
We got a little older.
Cheeks were still rosy.
He developed a striking voice. A strong voice. A kind voice. A voice built for broadcasting.
Had the resolve to pursue his dreams. Was driven.
A heart of a good man trapped in a child's growing body.
We got a little older and larger. We were becoming men.
His heart continued to outgrow his bones. His intelligence inspired us all.
At his core,
He remained an innocent.
As my friends in high school drunkenly and dismissively plotted the demise of some of our classmates, he remained untouched and sacred in our little schemes.
He would remain unscathed. Safe.
We wanted him to win. We knew he would some day.
With the strong bodies of youth and the muddled hearts and hormones of children pretending to be men, we still knew that the good guys had to eventually win.
Isn't that right?
I remember my wife and I running into him at a store a few years back.
Brief conversation. Very pleasant.
I told my wife that I realized that he was one of the good memories of my school days.
It was weird.
We were never especially close, but his presence was always reassuring.
Was a reminder of the good things.
I remember her looking at me and nodding.
Within that briefest of exchanges, she looked at me and said that he was one of the kindest souls she had ever met.
I couldn't help but smile and agree.
He contacted me a little over a year ago.
We talked of a few things. Of following dreams.
We talked of getting together sometime, and catching up.
I wanted to see how one of the last good men was doing.
I knew he had to be winning. I believed in that.
I became too busy. And I forgot.
Today I received a phone call from a close friend.
Told me that this shining beacon with the deep voice from our childhood had passed away.
Had taken his own life.
No.
That can't be right.
He's one of the good guys.
This is not how it's supposed to turn out.
Good eventually wins, right?
Maybe sometimes it becomes a little too dark inside.
Maybe those smiles and kind eyes hide a truth
That we're afraid to share.
Maybe we think no one can understand.
Maybe it just hurts a little too much in the hidden places within that shorten your breath and
Tighten your chest,
The place between your eyes that scream of washed out colors and muted sounds,
Where it's a toss up between pain and numbness as the lesser of two evils.
Maybe the unanswered questions seemed like a better alternative.
Maybe it's too hard sometimes to see life past the point of your nose,
when nothing else seems to exist but the quiet promise whispered from within the black barrel of that gun.
Maybe it becomes too hard to see your own light.
Maybe you spent so much of your time here illuminating everyone else's lives that
Now you're tired, and just need a little rest.
I don't know.
I only know you were and are loved,
Even by those of us who only wished we could have known you better,
Given you a little more of our time.
You will always remain in memory as a reminder of good things,
An embodiment of how kind people can truly be, if they just let themselves.
It's getting late.
You must be so tired.
It's ok.
Get some rest.
Goodnight.
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