For Thomas

The other day, I remembered that it was the birthday of an old friend. Not that he was old--not even close! But, that he was my friend over twenty years ago.  It must be that long since I last heard from him, but I've been catching up with old friends lately, so I decided to try to find him again.  I've looked for him, briefly, before, from time to time, with no results.  He wasn't a high-tech type of guy. I've never found him on Facebook.

But this time, when I Googled his full name, I found him right away.  Full name, right age, along with the city we'd both lived in at the time.  I recognized the names of his mother and brother, which were listed there, too.  It was definitely my Thomas.  He went by Thomas, not Tom.  He nicknamed me Jelly Bean, and I called him Teddy Bear a few times.

And, I saw something else there, with his full name and right age and city and his mom and brother.  I saw the year of his death.

I wasn't entirely surprised by this.  I've wondered sometimes if he were still around.  When I knew him, he had already overcome cancer. Twice.  

I wondered if that had been what had happened to him, or something else.  Had he ever married? Was he alone when he died? I wanted to know more.

And, I realized when I looked back on it that, for several years, he was the best friend I'd had. He was always there for me.  He would come over and hang out, listen to me complain about my ex-husband or help me take my young children to the state fair, tell me which boyfriends were psycho, help me clean out my storage room.  He fit himself neatly into my plans or my time.  He listened to and became whatever I needed him to hear or be.  Being a single mom can be lonely, and he got that.  Maybe I was his best friend at that time, too. I think so.

He had wanted our relationship to be more than it was.  And he was so good to me, so generous and patient, so kind and constant, he really deserved that.  But I didn't see him as a potential partner. From the start, he had not seemed to me like my type.  I'm short--and he was not shorter, but I'm pretty sure he weighed less.  He was younger.  I was married and divorced, with children. He'd had a hard-knock life, while I'd been very sheltered.   I had a college degree and a career.  He had not finished high school, and went from job to job, and apartment to apartment. He wasn't as stable in his personal life as he was as my friend.  I had to consider what bringing him fully into my life would be like for my kids.

I had understood and accepted his need to move on and out of my life. From time to time, I've missed him, in a wistful, he-would-understand way.  But I've understood that our parting was for both of our own good.

Even though decades have passed and I never really expected to see him again, and even though I had rejected him for what I'd thought were good reasons, after seeing a "year of death," I cried.

I cried from knowing that he is really gone, but I think more from seeing how scant is anything that is left of him.  He lived, he breathed, he walked and worked and socialized and laughed.  He had a crazy, cackly laugh that makes me smile as I recall it.  He loved greatly.  He was kind and constant and wise.  Gentle and unassuming.  He lived a simple life and didn't impose his needs, thoughts, or ways on anyone.

One site said he was dead; another gave a phone number.  After hesitating for a while, I called the phone number.  When we had been friends, his phone number had changed almost as often as his address had, and, when I would find it again, I would call him up and ask him, "What's your phone number?" and smile at his great, cackly laugh.  

So, I dialed the phone number and waited to hear his voice again.  I planned to ask, "What's your phone number?" and see if I could hear that same great laugh.

But the number had been disconnected.

The next day, I tried again to find out more.  From what I knew of him and his family, I supposed there might have been no one who had paid for an obituary to be printed.  But I found an obituary that was exactly 1.5 lines long in a newspaper in a state I'd never known he lived in.  I found out where his body had been disposed of.  I supposed he had probably been, for lack of funds, cremated and released to family.   Even though I anticipated these details, as each was confirmed to me I cried again. 

He was here on earth for a few decades, but there seems to be hardly anything left of him.

And so, I cried.  And I prayed for him--that he can know that I remember him, that he mattered to me, that he did make an impact.  That I appreciate all he did, and was, and gave, and taught.

I can do nothing to ease whatever he went through in his short life, or to help him now.  All I can do is remember him and write something down about him that is longer than 1.5 lines.  

Because every person is worth more than that.

And, even if it cannot be fully returned, a gift of love is something to appreciate.