Have you ever thought of someone unexpectedly, someone you don't normally see but can't get out of your head? For the last week, I've been meaning to drop Chris a line.
It's funny how memories grab hold. There was that time we scrounged around on the floor of the car for gas money to get to The City because he'd heard the Geary needed volunteer ushers and we could see the play for free. I can see him now, across the balcony, flamboyantly flipping that ridiculously long black cape over his shoulder to untangle it from the programs. He flashed me a smile as he led folks to their seats, completely oblivious to the fact they narrowly missed stepping on the edge of his cape which would have catapulted him into the orchestra pit.
Ah, Chris! We'd sit shoulder to shoulder, letting our feet dangle over the edge of the pier, eating cold cracked crab and sourdough bread with our fingers. I'll never forget teaching him to drive stick in the City and my tears of laughter as he screamed his way down Lombard Street.
He let me stuff him with Donut Wheel donuts. He pawed through and shared my lunches at school. We practiced the blocking and lyrics for musicals, cut class to hang out on a sunny patch of grass, rode bikes without jackets in the pouring rain. He let me cry on his shoulder and laugh at his skinny legs in those ugly striped pants. I guarded his secrets.
When my dad died, there he was, knowing to come even with thirty years between hugs. So this morning when I opened my email, a little piece of me flaked away at the news that he was gone.
The last day we were together, we laughed about moments like these and how much of a difference our friendship made. The last time we held hands, he was still wearing the engraved bracelet I gave him on Graduation Day, 1973.
As it turns out, he was dropping me a line in passing. Rest in peace, my friend. Some of my very best moments on earth were with you.
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