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The curious promise of limited time.”
New Years Day I awoke
with a bright promise upon my lips and in my heart. I wrote down the things I hope to accomplish
in the coming few months. Among them was to begin visiting people I have not
seen in a decade or more. Some are very
close geographically and it is silly that I have not seen them. It is time for me stop being such a hermit,
and tell the people that I love that I do.
My mothers best friend, Pat, told me after she died that she was never
really sure how my mother felt about her.
It broke my heart, because I knew how much my mother cared for her. But my mother, as loving as she was, could
not seem to express her feelings in this; she was too introverted and too
unwilling to inconvenience anyone. The
ones who lost were the people she loved, and I cannot let that be that fate of
those I love.
The curious promise of limited time.”
In September I had
made a few tentative plans with a friend to visit my hometown in March. Kim
grew up down the street from me. She had
grown a up girl with a hearty laugh who loved pranks, nicknames and sports
(Peppermint Patty) who loved large and wanted to be friends with everyone. She was the first girl into the then all-male
dominated Little League as well as a cheerleader, soccer player, and very very
popular in High School. She grew into a woman
who coached her children’s sports teams, loved her husband and knew everyone in
town, probably having had a drink with most of us at one point or another and
my favorite person to celebrate with back home.
Every small town has one.
She bought her mother’s
house and raised some beautiful children. When her
mother died. I was unable to make the service for Gretchen, a woman who had
welcomed me into her home many many times in my life, but sent flowers writing
the familiar address in my sleep with silent tears. Gretchen and I had spoken
Spanish with each other. She was from Nicaragua and my father from Argentina. I
felt the closeness of outsiders with her.
During
our phone call, Kim was excited that I was coming to stay for a few days and
had started to talk about holding a Bar B Que, worrying a bit that March would
be too cold. Then she laughed in her
hearty way and said, “Well, we will just have to have fire pits and jackets on.
And lots of alcohol.” I smiled at the
other end of the phone and chuckled to myself.
Such a Kim thing to say.
At
the time, I remember thinking I was lucky to have grown up on our street. Her best friend, Wendy, lived next door to me
and we had about twenty other kids on our street who all played and fought
together, including about nine in our class alone. There were another eleven or so in classes
within two years of us. It was a pretty
great street with lots to do and lots of amazing people. It was a street that everyone should have
grown up on, with late night games of all sorts of things. We had to be in when
the street lights came on, and happily went to bed, stinking of child, soap,
and evening.
My
plans were in my head as I opened Facebook.
So my heart stopped when I saw Wendy’s post. It was a picture I remember clearly, of the
two of them, aged 13 or 14. I think it
was taken in a photo booth at the county fair.
They are both so beautiful and so young, the promise of them shining out
their happy faces. Kim is leaning in and
laughing, with Wendy a blond contrast looking straight forward and relaxed with
her best friend at her side, waiting for whatever was to come. It is who they grew up to be. There was an RIP next to it.
My
heart turned into liquid nitrogen and froze. When I took a breath, it
shattered. Cold tears began to river
down my face and drip into my lap as I frantically typed Kim’s name into the
Facebook search engine. A small piece of
me wanted it to be a prank: a silly stupid thoughtlessly hurtful horrifying
prank. But the rest of me knew it was
true.
I read the tribute her husband left, and another
a small piece of me broke away to grieve in the silent private place where my
mother also lives. Kim was one of the
witnesses to my life, and she is no longer able to laugh with me over how
stupid we were. She is no longer able to hug me fiercely or tell me to stop
being such a nerd. She is no longer able
to drunkenly make silly fun of my childhood nickname, singing it, as no one
else could,
And
then I though of Wendy and what was left of my heart fell away. I messaged her immediately and asked her how
she was. The answer came a few hours
later, and I worried about her the whole time.
She was just so sad. A lifelong friendship was no longer, and she
is twice, thrice, a thousand times more shattered than I.
I
have been in tears off an on since then, remembering random things and going
through some old photos. Kim had plans
and wanted to do more things, and yet she lived more in her short life than
most people do in long lives. She
certainly loved more. I know that for
sure as she knew how to love since we were 7, when we met. Not a mean bone in her body and automatic
friends with everyone, I am sure it stumped her when I wanted to stay in and
read sometimes.
She taught me a lot about both love and
how to live.
When
I stop and think about Kim in the calm moments, I realize she is still teaching
me. I only have so much time. It is curious this promise of limited
time. It makes me more determined to
accomplish my dreams. When we finally grow up to realize we are not child
prodigies and the time we have left may be shorter than the time we have lived,
we begin to live the way Kim did, out loud.
We take the chances, smile at strangers and begin to cross things off
our bucket list. We become friends with
people we share history with and take trips to see them. I have signed up for Swing Dancing lessons, a
pottery class, made tentative plans to hit the Outer Banks, and scheduled lunch
with a friend from long ago, all just yesterday. As Kim leaves us, her mark remains. She may not have known what Carpe Diem meant,
but she certainly did seize the day, month, year, lifetime. I was lucky enough to sing with her, dance
with her, dream with her, and above all, laugh with her.
I know how now, Kim.
Thank you.
