Something Old

All I could think was if someone were reading the screenplay of my life they would see the dreaded, overused phrase “there were whispers around the cafe”. Cliche but how odd that cliches reflect much of reality. There was wisdom somewhere in there. I couldn’t find it. Didn’t want to.

Those whispers were for my Dear Friend.

Our town used to be small but it boomed with the economy. Stuck along interstate 35, nestled between San Antonio and Austin. It had no choice but to grow and adapt. Wish the people would as well.

At the table nearest me, sipping a latte with almond milk and two pumps of whatever zero-high-fructose-syrup, sat a good-looking blonde woman with her equally impressive friend. I could just make out the words over the hum of the busy cafe. “They say he never got over the loss of his daughter and that’s why he did it.” The blonde, in her late 30’s, I now recognized. Her family had some prominence in the area, if prominence was even a thing anymore. Her family knew my Dear Friend. Might have known him better than I had. Well at least they probably thought. I knew the real him. The good, the bad, the deep sorrow he felt.

Growing up in this small town I was a brilliant student. Star athlete. I was friendly, nice, and charming but I wrestled my own demons. Ones that were of my own deep insecurities. Some seven or eight years later When my Dear Friend took me in, I was hollow, had lost everything and everyone. An addict I struggled to overcome not the addictions but myself. I had used everyone in my life as if they were all objects, no care for their feelings, hopes, or dreams. I had let myself down so why couldn’t they help to lift me up. Sadly, they couldn’t lift me up when I was savagely stepping on them to get up.

While my Dear Friend may not have believed in me he saw me as a person and treated me as such and that was more than anyone to that point had done. He would often tell me “Don’t share your good deeds with anyone, let it be enough that you know you have done something incredible for someone else. Let that be reward enough.” I didn’t know how he was training my mind, structuring my thoughts at the time. His other bit of wisdom was so similar and so counterculture “Tell those who will listen, and who will care, tell them about your misgivings and your struggles. You may be helping someone with your authenticity. In placing your vulnerability out into the world you eliminate it within yourself. It’s as much for you as it is for them.” What a lesson. That first year I walked around exposed as if I was naked. A walking wound but soon I came to accept that nakedness, that openness and it created in me something I had never had, self-love and courage. Those were the greatest gifts he gave to me.

I wish he would have spoken to me before he left.

The blonde woman continued, “Oh that poor family they must be so embarrassed. He was so well known and to do that to them.”

They spoke with nonchalance as if they were mentioning the latest restaurant opening. What was so embarrassing about heartache, depression, and trauma? Mind you these were good Christian women, and yet lacked the mental capacity for empathy. The true answer is: there was nothing embarrassing about mental illness. Might as well be embarrassed for your father having high cholesterol or arthritis.

I clutched the black notebook he had given me. I was grateful for him, my Dear Friend. Grateful for his life, grateful that he was able to pass on some of his compassion.

I opened the notebook and inside the front cover was the 20,000 dollar check he had written for me two years ago.

I had come back to town to tell him the good news. My girlfriend of three years was pregnant. When we found out I rushed to the jewelry store and bought a ring, proposed, and blessedly she said yes. We had a wedding to prepare for and now a funeral. I shed a tear.

I put the check in my coat pocket. He would want me to use it for the wedding, for my wife and baby.

I opened the last page of the notebook and began, My Dear Friend.