May 22

There’s no getting around the fact that I need to mark this day. Part of me feels like it’s just a cry for attention — I mean, really, it was 24 years ago, and we weren’t even together at the time. Isn’t this really just a way of making it about me?

No. I’m sorry, but no. I’m allowed a day to grieve and acknowledge the loss. I watched my friend lose his sanity over the course of months (probably longer, but it was so visible those last few months). He truly thought the end of the world was coming, and that his sacrifice would somehow prevent it. He poured gasoline on himself and lit the match. That was yesterday, and the beginning of the longest day. Today marks the day he finally died.

Should I stay home? go out? be alone? with friends? eat? drink? fast? there are no good answers, because there are no right answers. No one, I’m sure, acknowledges this day other than me and his family. Does Rebekah remember? I want to call but I won’t ask. If she doesn’t, surely that’s healthier than me, sitting here, 24 years later, grieving the loss of my friend and my dream of first love.

I wish I could call Kae or Laura or Geoff or Don and talk to them today. I know they know what day it is. But it can’t possibly help them to know that I remember it, too. So I’ll stay home, so I don’t cry in public, and I’ll write this note to acknowledge both publicly and anonymously, I miss my friend. I still feel regret that I couldn’t help more.

And then, grace willing, I’ll wrap it back up in the box, lovingly and carefully, and I’ll put it back on the shelf until next year. Maybe that’ll be the year it stays there until I go get it again, instead of slipping down around the first signs of spring.

I love you, Steve. I always will.