Gone

The wind has been so still since that night. I’ve just been sitting in the cabin. You always said it was too far from town, and from you, and I never took you too seriously. I just figured we hadn’t been that close in a while, and that you were just saying it to be polite, or to hint that you dreaded the trip. I recall the way you would look down after you said these kinds of things, an awkward crease in your brow. I would reply with a joke to clear the air, and watch you chuckle at the ground. Then we’d go on doing whatever we were doing.

I recall the night we crossed paths again after some odd years. I had just gotten back from my apprenticeship in Europe. You were in the same seat at the bar, in the same town you always spoke so badly about, drinking that same piss I used to make fun of you for. After years of not feeling at home, I finally did, and it was only when I saw you. I approached you while you were hunched over the bar, but you must have seen me in the mirror, because right when I was about to tap your shoulder, you said:

“Get this stranger one of these. They’re his favorite.”

We sat there til close, talking about what we’d been up to, what I had missed in my years abroad. It wasn’t until after we buried you that I learned not everything was as rosy as you made it out to be, but that’s classic from you. You never spoke a word about that sort of stuff, maybe you thought you looked weak, or that I didn’t care.

Regardless, from that night on it was like we were kids again, rolling around town, working, chasing girls. You’d come up to the cabin and we would just smoke pot and talk. You always had a project, the man who would save the world. I remember I woke up to your car door slamming. It was 7 a.m.

“What in the hell do you want?” I asked, barely opening my eyes.

“The birds, Gus. The birds are dying.”

You pulled out this piece of paper and proceeded with your presentation. Of course, being in my state of mind, your words fell on deaf ears, and I trudged to the kitchen to make breakfast.

It’s moments like those that pain me most to remember. Everything that I loved about you, my best friend and brother, I never told you. Like how you accidentally broke my science project our junior year, and you felt so bad that you pulled the fire alarm to get me out of class. You almost got expelled just to help me out. And when the kids across town had taken my little sister’s Halloween candy, you dragged her across town so she could point out who did it, and when she did you punched a guy’s tooth out. When Mrs. Rivers broke her leg, you would bring her groceries and mail up to the house every day, even though she called the cops on us for next-to-nothing. That was you.

Your father told me at the funeral that it was only a matter of time. I was shocked. I asked what he meant, and he told me everything. About your illness, your attempt. Everything. That set me off.

You son of a bitch. How could you leave that out? I almost broke down before I realized that you didn’t want me to know. I had to respect that, but I hated you for it. It made complete sense, which also made it worse - you didn’t want that part of your life to affect the present, but what about right now? I understand that but I hate you for it.

You know I would have told you the truth. That you are one of the brightest, smartest, loving, most beautiful human beings to grace this planet. I would have told you that you were loved by just about everyone we knew. I would have gone into depth about how much I had missed my best friend during my time away. That when I walked into the bar that night, I was looking for you. I would explain to you the brilliance of your projects and ideas and the wonder and magic about them, and that you should shake the dust of this stupid town off of you and go make the world better like you always have. I would tell you that I loved you and that it would break my heart if you left for good.

However, I know now that you would not have listened. That your family has been reminding you of this for years, only for the same outcome. You had a disease that told you you meant nothing, in a voice which outshone all of ours combined. And it won.

You know, your lawyer came by the cabin today. You never mentioned having a lawyer, so I was surprised to see a suit tread up the dust and dirt of the mountain. He told me you had been saving up money, and that you had big plans. I smiled. There’s that saving the world you always spoke about. Then he told me that you left the money to me. I was dumbfounded.

After relentless questioning, he made it clear that it was in fact me you left the money to. In my eyes it had to be a mistake, but he assured me it wasn’t. Even from the grave you pull this shit.

I looked at the check when I became enraged. You had enough to get out and start somewhere new several times over.

That was when he handed me your black notebook.

I flicked through it and the warmth of nostalgia coursed through me. This was a collection of every project you ever came up with, your guide to saving the world. I laughed. There was one you made when we were kids - “The Eggsaver” - which was just a net you tied around the trees to keep the nested eggs and baby birds from falling to the ground. We made a few prototypes, but they never worked for some reason.

It all made sense. The money. The notebook.

I understand.

I sit on the porch and it’s so quiet without you. The wind isn’t blowing and the birds are not singing the same as they used to. It’s as if they can feel it. I know I can.

So I decided it’s time to sell the cabin. You always said it was too far from you, and it breaks my heart to remain here any longer. I get real down sometimes, and I end up thinking about what I didn’t get to tell you. I cry. However the most pain comes from knowing it would make no difference. Either way, I understand, Lenny. I understand and I love you.