He died early; I don’t blame him.
We don’t always realize the true value of a moment until it becomes a memory.
When I was in my formative years (they’re all formative years), around the age of ten or twelve, my parents split (split up; split town; split for good). I went into a long-lasting funk. Then I went crying to friends. Aside from the woods, I had nowhere else to turn. In those days counselors were nonexistent. My friends’ parents were also divorced or divorcing, so I knew they’d understand and empathize. The two friends that got me were Todd Dangerfield and Stevie Sherwood, precocious neighborhood kids who wore torn jeans long before they were considered fashionable. These two helped keep the ‘hood in neighborhood. “We’ll all be all right,” Stevie would say to me, hand on my shoulder. “Each day is ours.”
“Each day is ours.”
I treasure that moment.
One day, when Stevie knew I was hurting inside, he invited me to go water-skiing on Folsom Lake, a huge expanse of backed-up water not far from where we lived, at the base of the Sierra Nevada. He figured doing something else would help me think of something else. His dad and older brother were going, so they could teach me the rope, so to speak. I had moved elsewhere and used it as an excuse, but the truth was I was terrified of new endeavors, so I opted out. In a way I’m glad I did. In a way, I’ll always regret not having gone. Perhaps I could’ve done something.
It was a seizure that took him, and a large part of me. His first seizure ever would be his last. The coroner later said it hadn’t been a severe episode, but it was enough to send him over the edge of the boat and into the water. He drowned. Stevie had always been a joker, and his dad thought he was simply screwing around. When I heard the horrific news, I fell further into despair. I didn’t attend his funeral. I feared I’d never recover. I never have. My life had no meaning. All of life had no meaning.
But.
Meaningless though life may be, I vowed then to make each day a bit more meaningful, in his honor. To celebrate the beauty of life...our one and only, our precious/precarious time, our limitless opportunity, our potential. That’s the effect the death of a young friend will have when you’ve remained distraught over it your whole life. Whole life, indeed: his premature demise and its effect have made my life whole, my life complete--I’ve accomplished far more than I’d ever dreamt, at times even a sense of inner peace--and for that I’ll always cherish the memory of Stevie, even as the memory fades.
My sister named her child after Stevie, even though she wasn’t as close to him as I’d been. She and I aren’t all that close, unfortunately, but I’ve always been beholden toward her for such a kindhearted deed. I figured if I ever had a child, I would have named him--or her--Stevie. I’ve not had a child, and I fear that that good fortune has come and gone. I fear more so, however, that our memories fade. All we’re left with is the life we lead, until it fades.
When I was in my formative years (they’re all formative years), around the age of ten or twelve, my parents split (split up; split town; split for good). I went into a long-lasting funk. Then I went crying to friends. Aside from the woods, I had nowhere else to turn. In those days counselors were nonexistent. My friends’ parents were also divorced or divorcing, so I knew they’d understand and empathize. The two friends that got me were Todd Dangerfield and Stevie Sherwood, precocious neighborhood kids who wore torn jeans long before they were considered fashionable. These two helped keep the ‘hood in neighborhood. “We’ll all be all right,” Stevie would say to me, hand on my shoulder. “Each day is ours.”
“Each day is ours.”
I treasure that moment.
One day, when Stevie knew I was hurting inside, he invited me to go water-skiing on Folsom Lake, a huge expanse of backed-up water not far from where we lived, at the base of the Sierra Nevada. He figured doing something else would help me think of something else. His dad and older brother were going, so they could teach me the rope, so to speak. I had moved elsewhere and used it as an excuse, but the truth was I was terrified of new endeavors, so I opted out. In a way I’m glad I did. In a way, I’ll always regret not having gone. Perhaps I could’ve done something.
It was a seizure that took him, and a large part of me. His first seizure ever would be his last. The coroner later said it hadn’t been a severe episode, but it was enough to send him over the edge of the boat and into the water. He drowned. Stevie had always been a joker, and his dad thought he was simply screwing around. When I heard the horrific news, I fell further into despair. I didn’t attend his funeral. I feared I’d never recover. I never have. My life had no meaning. All of life had no meaning.
But.
Meaningless though life may be, I vowed then to make each day a bit more meaningful, in his honor. To celebrate the beauty of life...our one and only, our precious/precarious time, our limitless opportunity, our potential. That’s the effect the death of a young friend will have when you’ve remained distraught over it your whole life. Whole life, indeed: his premature demise and its effect have made my life whole, my life complete--I’ve accomplished far more than I’d ever dreamt, at times even a sense of inner peace--and for that I’ll always cherish the memory of Stevie, even as the memory fades.
My sister named her child after Stevie, even though she wasn’t as close to him as I’d been. She and I aren’t all that close, unfortunately, but I’ve always been beholden toward her for such a kindhearted deed. I figured if I ever had a child, I would have named him--or her--Stevie. I’ve not had a child, and I fear that that good fortune has come and gone. I fear more so, however, that our memories fade. All we’re left with is the life we lead, until it fades.
Until then, each day is ours.
~~~~~~~~~~
The sun shall rise
The sun shall set
in between
Is what we get
The sun shall set
The sun shall rise
in between
...another prize
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