We are past the age of putting our lives in careless danger without a second thought.
We are past the age of playing chicken on a small dirt road with a sixteen wheeler.
We are past the age of crossing active railroad tracks while in a less than astute state of mind.
We are at the age of funerals.
We are at the age of bad things start happening.
We are at the age of reapplied sunscreen and knowledge of saturated fats.
We are at the age where we regret cigarettes, illegal substances and every minute spent on a roof with tinfoil as a pillow and vegetable oil for skin lotion.
We go to doctor’s appointments, we eat fruits and vegetables, we take our vitamins and drink water and run three times a week but we know it’s coming for us too.
So here we sit at 40 something losing our companions, our partners our compadres our parents our friends and protecting our minutes because in the end all we have is our few allotted minutes.
Our people die and we are surprised and dismayed.
Who is responsible for this mess, this horrible pain?
They drank too much. They smoked too much. They ate too much crappy food. They didn’t exercise. They did drugs or sat in the sun too long.
We want answers, but answers don’t help.
In the end they are still dead and we are sad and it doesn’t matter how they went because they are gone and at our age gone means for frigging forever.
George Suder has been dead for twenty plus years and it still feels like a black hole took up home in my heart.
I refuse to let him go. I owe him that.
There are others.
Here’s what was special about my friend Johnny.
He made you want to kick back and take a load off. He was frank and awkward and super smart. I loved his funny little voice, how much he knew about the widest variety of things and how much he loved his dog. I love how sometimes I pretended to know what he was talking about and how he knew that but forgave me anyway. I love how loyal he was and how my son Donovan took to him immediately and how when someone described him as raconteur I knew they had chosen the right word.
I don’t want to get over Johnny’s death.
I don’t ever want to forget my friend Carter or Andy Wells who I thought I loved in eleventh grade or Ronnie who was my college roommate’s mother.
I don’t want to get over them.
I don’t want to forget them.
If we only have a few allotted moments under the sun then I will spend some of mine with my face upwards, giving thanks for everyone who has ever shined on me and some of my moments will go towards remembering those who have given warmth and gone on but will never be forgotten no matter how long I have to live without them.
About Rebecca Suder