The Long Walk Home

I was 13 years old when Sean and his family moved away. That was in 1975, more than thirty years ago now. They were moving to a place far away, a place I’d never heard of at the time. It’s funny; I have a memory of the incident being unremarkable, though I feel now that it must have been at least a little traumatic for me. I mean, how can you watch one of your best friends—one you’ve spent the past six years with—so nonchalantly disappear out of your life forever and not be affected by that?

I stood there for a while and watched as they drove away. After they turned onto Joy Road, heading west, I just stared, realizing that I would never see them again. Six years of close friendship now gone in an instant, never to return. I looked at the house they used to live in—a home where childlike exuberance rang through the halls, a home that had become a second home to me—and felt the pangs of abandonment. Six years of climbing trees, drawing comics, watching monster movies, acting goofy and making each other laugh—all gone. A sigh that was nearly a moan escaped me. I wasn’t sure what to feel, so I just felt empty.

It’s sad like that sometimes, how friends disappear during the span of a lifetime. One minute you’re hopping fences and sharing mischievous adventures together, and the next there’s this big hole in your life where your friends used to be. Looking back, I can’t help but puzzle over how these people so inconspicuously snuck out of my life. Where did our roads diverge? How did we become so separated from each other? I often think about friends I had growing up; I’ve never had friends like that in my life since. And I wonder why it has to be that way.

Normally it only took me five minutes to walk home from Sean’s house, since I lived right around the block. I’d been to Sean’s house hundreds of times—it was my home away from home—and the walk was always the same. The day Sean’s family moved away, everything changed. I was only 13, and Sean had been my best friend for six years—a long time when you’re a kid. Now he was leaving forever. I was there when they packed their last few boxes and cases and bags into their car and drove off. The final goodbyes still ring in my ears to this day. I had to live with the realization then that I would never see Sean again, and that this would be the last time I ever walked back home from Sean’s house.

It was a long walk home.

Memories of a Friend

June 11th, 2008.
No matter how I tried to disbelieve them, the words seared into my mind: “… died Jan 29th, 2008, after a courageous 12-year battle with cancer.”

I stared at the words, numb, incredulous, and felt as though I were inside a lightless, soundless room, the air pressure squeezing my head. My brain couldn’t make sense of it, didn’t want to make sense of it. Memories of the times we had shared together all those years ago flooded in. It couldn’t be her, I desperately told myself, it just couldn’t be. I had always believed that some day we would meet again, when we were both ready. But now I was staring at words that told me I would never see her again. Time stopped.

***

I was 26 in 1988, the year I first met Barb. There was something about her that drew me to her—a certain spunkiness … and a certain melancholy. She was 34—more than seven years older than I—but that didn’t matter at all; she had the heart and spirit of someone ten years her junior. We really hit it off and for the next seven years we had a close—albeit somewhat tumultuous, on-again-off-again—relationship. But through it all, our friendship endured.

By 1995, though, the relationship had become strained. I was feeling smothered and was pulling away from her, and she was desperately trying to hold on. I wasn’t very nice to her in those days, something I truly regret now. All she ever wanted was to be loved, to feel that she was special to someone. But at that time in my life, I just couldn’t give her the commitment she needed. And so, in August of that year she finally made the decision to let go of me. I still remember that phone call. It was to be the last time I ever spoke to her.

It would be the following year the lump in her breast was discovered, and even though she’d had a successful lumpectomy, she would never be rid of the cancer.

***

Throughout the years I’d think about her now and then, wondering how she was doing, hoping that life was treating her well. I really wanted for her to have found someone special. There were many occasions where I was tempted to try and find her again, to see how she was doing. But we hadn’t parted on the most amicable of terms and I felt that she might not appreciate me calling on her. I believed she needed to be free of me, so she could move on. Still, I always hoped that somehow our paths would cross again.

For 12 years she battled her cancer, until January 29th, 2008, when her body just couldn’t take any more, and she succumbed to the disease.

The last time we’d spoken—all those years ago on the phone on that warm summer day in 1995—she told me that I’d never find another person like her, that I would miss her. At the time I wasn’t sure I believed that; I suppose I may have been too arrogant. It wasn’t until a warm summer day in 2008—the day I saw her obituary—that I realized her words were true. Barb was one of a kind. And I do miss her.

And it’s the little things I remember: jogging together in the park by the flat I used to live in; breakfasts at her house on Sunday mornings; songs she liked for me to sing to her; a walk to the Dairy Queen; a day at Four Bears Water Park; how she loved Puffalumps. Those are the things that gave her life then … and keep her alive in my memories now. I’m a better person for having known her.

Twenty years have passed since the day I first met her. Although I hadn’t seen her in more than twelve years, I know I’ll miss her forever.

A Lesson in Perseverance

As a writer I am often faced with rejection. Though not the most enjoyable part of the process, it is inevitable. But I try to look at it with a different perspective, one that’s at least better for my ego: Rejections are badges of honor. I mean, hey, if I’m getting rejections, it means that I’m actually writing, doing the work. And I’m courageous enough to let my babies go out into the world to be judged, right? And then there’s the whole Law of Averages thing. Babe Ruth rang up so many home runs because he kept swinging at the ball. Eventually he would connect. Same goes for writing—you keep swinging and eventually you connect.

However, when you go through months of rejections and no responses and nothing good happening with your work, you begin to second guess yourself, to doubt your talent as a writer. Another swing and a miss. Your batting average has dropped to zero and thoughts like, “Maybe my work does stink,” and “Who do I think I am, sending in my work alongside the thousands of writers out there with real talent?” start to waft through your troubled mind. You start to feel exposed, vulnerable, hopeless. You’re aiming for center field, but center field sure looks a long way off.

But you don’t stop writing—you can’t stop, it’s your passion. And as the saying goes, “Obstacles are the stepping stones to success.”

So you keep plugging along, letting your little fingers tap merrily away at the keyboard, all the while hoping you’re not just producing more crap. But in the dark space in the back of your mind you see vultures circling. And they taunt you: “Your words will die on the page.” That’s when you wonder if you’re simply wasting your time, and when you become paranoid that the sideways glances your wife gives you are her way of saying she’s tolerating your “little hobby.”

But take heart. Life has a way of letting you know when you’re on the right track by rewarding your perseverance with little gifts. I received such a gift two days ago in the form of a notification. A short story I had entered into a contest won third prize. Not a home run, but I had entered a half dozen contests prior to this one with no results at all. Not even a “Strike three, you’re out!”

At that moment, a Bronze was worth its weight in gold.

It was the shot in the arm I needed, and I realized that I’m still in the game. The center field bleachers are reachable . . . if I just keep swinging.

Brevity

Since this is my first attempt at blogging, I'll be brief.

'Nuf said.