For Bobby

I learned this week of the passing of a childhood friend, a bright and gentle boy whom I'd known in elementary school. 

Bobby used to come over to the house when we were eight or nine years of age. I'd been to his place once or twice, too; he had some interesting games.

We would play and draw and chat about things like race cars and space ships. I remember us exploring gadgets on my father's workbench one time. Bobby was always positive and good natured, not rough and pushy and argumentative like some of the boys in the neighborhood.

One summer (I think it was after the third grade) Bobby moved to another school system. No one was really certain where he went, and I never saw him again. 

Over the years, on occasion, I would remember Bobby. Where did he live? What sort of career did he have? There aren't that many truly good friends in life. It's natural to wonder about them when they've moved on.

My mom asked me if I remembered him. I said, "Yes, we were friends before he moved away. He used to come over to the house." She handed me the obituary page. 

Bobby wore glasses. He left behind a family, and they don't live far from where we grew up. He and I attended the same college, but perhaps in different years because he spent time at community college initially. It wasn't as though he had been living on the other side of the world. He was right there all along.

The cause of death wasn't mentioned - it's unfashionable to do so, these days - but it doesn't matter. He's gone. It's too late.

Despite all of the opportunities for connectivity that we have at our disposal these days, I never once thought to reach out to him. It just never occurred to me. 

Now, of course, I'd love to. I'd love to say, "Hey, I'm not sure if you remember me, but we used to play together when we were kids, and I wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed our time together." 

Maybe he wouldn't remember. Maybe he would think that it was bizarre hearing from some random person after so many decades. What does it matter? A connection is a connection, and it never hurts to tell someone that you appreciated what they did for you.

The message remains unsent, the words unheard by the one person for whom receiving them would have meant something. The finality of death is stunning and non-negotiable.

Thank you for being my friend, Bobby. I wish that I had had the presence of mind to say this when it could have reached you.

Copyright © 2014 Daniel R. South 

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