Down the Rabbit Hole

February 9th

The date slipped by me, unnoticed, consumed as I was with concerns over my sick baby. "He would have been 41 yesterday", the single thought catching me up as I stepped from the shower this morning, feeling more awake than I had in days. These last few years, as my life has surged forward, I have been assaulted by thoughts of my friend with far less frequency. What's more, it has been several years since I made the pilgrimage to his grave. These days I dwell in memories only when the need is thrust upon me through the processes of rewriting and editing. These last few years, if I think about him at all, I am far more prone to do so in the Fall, during that week in September when he died rather than in February, on the day of his birth. So I am surprised by my sudden observation, and ever more so when I realize that I can not recall a single birthday celebration from the more than five years we were together, aside from a rare dinner with his mother perhaps. Could it have been simply that for so long he had been estranged from his family? Then why can't I remember a meal cooked in our home, a cake, a gift of some significance? I must have made some effort to observe his birthday once or have those kinder, warmer memories have been written over by all the dark, tragic ones? The possibility saddens me. It wasn't all bad. I don't want to remember of him in degrees of pain alone. He was not always the person his addiction made him in the end. He didn't always reduce me to hopeless tears, he didn't break every promise or fall short of every expectation. He didn't just break my heart. He didn't just die, he also lived, as fully and as completely as he was able. I decided that in honor of his birthday, in honor of a life that ended too soon, I would take a moment to remember a few of the more bright spots in our history.

I think back to that uncommonly mild winter afternoon when he decided to take an old loaf of bread down to the cove by my apartment to feed the ducks. We sat and tossed handfuls of bread to the small clutch of mallards. He insisted on singing a Bare Naked Ladies tune and I laughed at his mangled lyrics and horribly off-tune rendition of "Brian Wilson". Distracted with our banter, neither one of us noticed that our small family of ducks had doubled in size and more were emerging from the reeds and the far shores in groups of five and six. Before we knew it, there was a gaggle of squawking, hungry ducks spilling ashore. One was even bold enough to waddle up and peck at the toe of my boot. "More!" I urged, reaching back for another lump of bread. Finding myself empty-handed, I turned to look at him. He stood there, the empty bread bag flapping, his face a shocked mask. "There isn't anymore." He said, and his eyes widened in alarm as he looked from me to the growing army of ducks, who by this time had begun storming the shore. We stood there watching the wall of angry fowl approaching, wings flapping and beady orange eyes flashing with obvious malicious intent. We both made the decision to run at the same time, launching ourselves up the steep hill, tripping over tree lips and stumbling over stones. We made it through my kitchen door and collapsed in a heap on the linoleum. Ragged breathing soon gave way to a fits of laughter. After a moment, he turned to me..."Cricket, that really wasn't my best idea afterall." We laughed about that afternoon time and time again over the years. There were many times he made me laugh but there were times he also coached my tears, not from his thoughtless actions but because I needed a good cry to put a bad day to rest or shake off an insult or injury. Many were the times I would come home with a heavy heart and find he had a bubble bath waiting for me. He would park his big body in the open doorway, his elbows propped up on a pillow, a bowl of popcorn on the floor in front of him, patiently waiting for me to just start talking, or yelling, or cursing, whatever I needed to do to unload. He was as good of a listener as you expect your closest friends to be. So these are the memories I call upon today, the moments he was a good friend, the memories behind the friend I still miss even if I can no longer recall the exact way the features of his face came together. I hope I will always remember the way he mixed up every lyric he ever sang, the way he filled up an open doorway and the sound of his unbridled laughter. I hope I will always remember the ducks. Even if I don't remember every Feb. 9th, just once in a while, in the mist of my wonderful life with my amazing husband and my beautiful daughter, I know he would want me to think of him this way.