Auld Acquaintance

 Hindsight, they say, is twenty-twenty. That means that we see more clearly with time what transpired in our youth. This might explain why I spend so much space here ruminating on what was rather than what will be. I know what was. I can pick it up and spin it around. I can look at it from top to bottom without it moving around too much. Which is how I discovered that this connection I continue to cherish was only five years out of my life. I only lived in the same apartment as Darren for less than a year. For the nine months of our sophomore year and two months in what was his senior year. 

Darren only lived for two months after we moved in together in the fall of 1985. His passing is the stuff of legend around this corner of Entropical Paradise. How I came to elevate him to such lofty status has been examined and re-examined for decades now, but it was only this past month when I read a book called Stay True that I truly began to comprehend how this young man who I only knew for a handful of years landed at the top of my pantheon of friends. This memoir, written by Hua Hsu, tells the story of two friends who met in college and developed a kinship through music and fashion and the day to day business of discovering oneself in college. And then, when that friendship comes crashing to an end through no choice of their own, how survival becomes making sense of tragedy. Reckoning with the fragility of life when you thought you were indestructible is a tough pill to swallow. 

I have been fortunate to make that journey myself with the help of fellow survivors, all of whom had their own connection with Darren. For many years, however, I struggled with this puzzle by myself. I was sure that there was no one who understood the shock and depression that I was enduring. It wasn't until I read Stay True that it became apparent that this is a turn we all make at some point in our lives, and I have been grateful to have experienced it with a circle of caring friends. 

This does not mean that I don't continue to be guilty of a bit of navel-gazing. The insular nature of my grief kept me from fully connecting with all those other hearts that were broken when Darren died was part of growing up. Grief was like being tossed into the deep end of adulthood and being forced to swim to safety. I was fortunate enough to make a connection with Darren's younger sister over the past nineteen years. The little girl I met in a Muskogee, Oklahoma living room is all grown up now and she found her way back to me thanks to Al Gore's Internet. That was nearly twenty years ago. 

We talked again last week, picking up where we left off. Her kids, like ours, have grown up in the meantime. The stories we both share with our kids are often sprinkled with the lively spirit of her brother. My friend. We agreed that there is something about his spirit thatat we need to keep alive. She was the one who reminded me that Darren and I were both in high school band. He ditched his saxophone shortly after moving away to college. I sold my tuba and trombone to a guy who intended to turn the into lamps. Darren's sister held onto his sax. She has kept it for all these years. It is a talisman much like the plastic Celica badge I found near the wreckage all those years ago. 

We hold on to things when we can't hold on to people. 

It was during our most recent conversation that Darren's sister pointed out that this fall will mark forty years without him. Sometimes that feels like a long time. Sometimes it feels like last week. The best thing about being here now is knowing that I am not alone.