Of memories and loss.

It’s not a secret that I was bullied in middle school. From the age of nine to about thirteen, I was constantly reminded by my peers that all of the things which made me different should be cause for shame and embarrassment. My saving grace came in two forms: first, that through sheer defiance, I was determined to live through those years and do so much more than any of my peers were capable of, thereby winning, and second, that I had at least two or three people in my largely heartless school environment who stood by me.

When I was in seventh grade, I befriended a guy in the eighth grade who all of the girls adored. His name was Rick, and we were only ever just friends (in fact, imagining that he was my older brother figure helped me cope with the truth that I ultimately had no one to fight on my behalf), but that didn’t stop the girls in my grade from staring daggers at me for my friendship with him. Rick didn’t give a shit what the girls thought of us. He talked to me in the one class we had together, at lunch, between classes, and at recess. He was popular, on the football team (a requisite for male popularity). I was a nobody, a lone wolf as I’ve so often been.

We reconnected in high school, or maybe it was college, once or twice. I remember one time when we hung out near my house. We spent the evening walking around in the dark, and I remember crunching leaves in warm weather, so it had to be late summer. We went back to my place and he sat on my bed and told me about how he thought I was wonderful, that he thought I was the most beautiful girl when we were in school together. He admitted a childhood crush that I had never known of, one that still has me legitimately floored. I was thrown by the confession, and mumbled a thank you.

He didn’t try to put a move on me, which proved his sincerity. Later, we hugged tightly as we parted ways. That might have been the last time we ever saw each other; I honestly can’t remember.

Rick died yesterday. I found out when a mutual acquaintance posted the online obituary on Facebook. I haven’t talked to him in years. It’s been easily at least six or eight years. If my memory is blurring, and it was high school that I saw him and he admitted his feelings, it’s been over a decade. The obituary photo shows him young, handsome, a chiseled face. When I last saw him he had put on a couple of pounds, actually making him more lovable in my eyes. I wondered when I saw it if the photo was recent. The circumstances of Rick’s death are rumoured suspect. I don’t mean he was killed; I only mean that it may not have been as noble as what he deserved. It’s funny how many things can change in ten years.

Here is what I remember about Rick: he made me feel special and deserving of kindness and friendship when everyone around me told me otherwise. He was kind, and clever, and had an easy-going and charming air, the kind that comes effortlessly when you’re a teenage boy with dark hair and a great smile and everything else that Italian genetics entail. He never once gave in to peer pressure by being rude to me, or by pushing me away because speaking to me could somehow place his popularity in jeopardy. He was a good person. And I am terrified that I never once told him the extent to which he influenced me, the feeling of self-worth he imbued in me when I most needed it.

He was twenty-seven. One year older than me. All I can think is, what if I only had one year until my death? How would I spend my last year? There are so many loose strings to tie up, so many people to speak to, so much to prove. So many milestones I haven’t yet hit, that I chase with desperation and drop when other distractions surface. But I have no idea what Rick has been up to for the last ten years. What I remember is that he was good. It doesn’t matter to me if he was successful in business or if he finished college or what kind of car he drove. I will never forget his name because he was good.

That’s all that matters in this world: being kind to each other when kindness is scarce. Being fearless when it’s easier to run away. Loving when love is under the scrutiny of ridicule. I hope you know how much you meant to me, Rick. I know it’s hard for your family right now because they, too, know you a were good person. I can only imagine the extent to which you lit up their lives. I want you to know that you will always be a part of my memories. It is all that I can give you.