You don't know when you're going to die. You don't wake up and say to yourself, "This is the last time I'll ever wake up." Life just doesn't work like that. Nobody, unless of course your death is due to a long drawn out illness, gets to see their friends and family one last time; it's just over.
About the time I was finalizing and publishing the sixth post in my Quandary series on Sunday, my childhood friend Mike was taking in his last breath. He was under his truck when the jack slipped out and crushed him under its weight. He was found a short while later by his parents.
Although I haven't actually seen him in years, the news of his death had quite an impact on me. Last night I spoke with his mother whom I hadn't talked to in almost 20 years and obviously she was devastated. I felt helpless as there was nothing I could say or do to bring him back.
Mike and I started hanging out sometime around the 5th grade when my mom and I moved to a Dayton Avenue apartment in St. Paul and I started attending Longfellow elementary. Every morning a group of us would meet on his porch and make the walk to school. Those would be the same people that would be my friends for many years.
I lived with him and his parents after I dropped out of high school and we became inseparable for years. We did a lot of recreational drug use. We explored St. Paul in a way most don't: dangerously. We climbed the catwalks under the Ford bridge, explored caves at Lillydale, and tried to blow up everything we could with the use of homemade film-canister bombs. We were crazy, I mean absolutely nuts.
As with all friendships, relationships, and family ties, everything went out the window when I discovered hard drugs. He wasn't into the "good stuff" so I drifted away. But he never gave up on me, he would come see me wherever I lived, and he always made an effort to call me and ask how I was. He's the only one of my friends that came to visit me in the eight or nine years I lived down in Fillmore County. Seth even hung out with us for the night as we showed off our drinking skills. Seth and I even drove up to the cities a few weeks later to hang out with him. Obviously, I didn't know then that would be the last time I ever saw him.
We talked over the phone a few times after that, but my life was slipping away due to chronic alcoholism and would eventually lead again to meth.
I don't know what stopped me from contacting him since I moved back to the cities. It's because it's tough to associate with people that you associate with drinking and drugs. But now I regret not making that call.
I know what to focus on, the good memories I have. And now I know the importance of making amends, something I will never get to do with him in person. I will, however, do it through prayer and action, and hope that it somehow helps him wherever he may roam.
That's the end of this post. The rest I will write in a letter to his parents in the hopes that it helps them in the grieving oroceds.
Rest in peace, my friend.
About the time I was finalizing and publishing the sixth post in my Quandary series on Sunday, my childhood friend Mike was taking in his last breath. He was under his truck when the jack slipped out and crushed him under its weight. He was found a short while later by his parents.
Although I haven't actually seen him in years, the news of his death had quite an impact on me. Last night I spoke with his mother whom I hadn't talked to in almost 20 years and obviously she was devastated. I felt helpless as there was nothing I could say or do to bring him back.
Mike and I started hanging out sometime around the 5th grade when my mom and I moved to a Dayton Avenue apartment in St. Paul and I started attending Longfellow elementary. Every morning a group of us would meet on his porch and make the walk to school. Those would be the same people that would be my friends for many years.
I lived with him and his parents after I dropped out of high school and we became inseparable for years. We did a lot of recreational drug use. We explored St. Paul in a way most don't: dangerously. We climbed the catwalks under the Ford bridge, explored caves at Lillydale, and tried to blow up everything we could with the use of homemade film-canister bombs. We were crazy, I mean absolutely nuts.
As with all friendships, relationships, and family ties, everything went out the window when I discovered hard drugs. He wasn't into the "good stuff" so I drifted away. But he never gave up on me, he would come see me wherever I lived, and he always made an effort to call me and ask how I was. He's the only one of my friends that came to visit me in the eight or nine years I lived down in Fillmore County. Seth even hung out with us for the night as we showed off our drinking skills. Seth and I even drove up to the cities a few weeks later to hang out with him. Obviously, I didn't know then that would be the last time I ever saw him.
We talked over the phone a few times after that, but my life was slipping away due to chronic alcoholism and would eventually lead again to meth.
I don't know what stopped me from contacting him since I moved back to the cities. It's because it's tough to associate with people that you associate with drinking and drugs. But now I regret not making that call.
I know what to focus on, the good memories I have. And now I know the importance of making amends, something I will never get to do with him in person. I will, however, do it through prayer and action, and hope that it somehow helps him wherever he may roam.
That's the end of this post. The rest I will write in a letter to his parents in the hopes that it helps them in the grieving oroceds.
Rest in peace, my friend.
