Memory

Two boys, nearly men. Two young ladies. We are seated in an auditorium filled to the brim with folks who's lives have been touched by one man. A man who left us all so suddenly.

An evening of entertainment, students of past and present invade our senses with words and praises, songs and prayers. All eyes face forward. I try not to look at the empty diet coke cans or the delicately draped jacket that no longer have an owner. These images are sure to elicit tears, but I'm not certain that I have any more to give.

But I can't help it. My mind is bombarded with memories of a presence I have no more. No more pre-performance hugs, no more dinner parties playing Balderdash, no more quiet moments, just us, questioning topics like politics and religion.

I feel that tell tale prick on the back of my eyes, the lump that slowly grows like cancer in my throat. A flood of emotion that consumes my body as I try to remain still and silent in my auditorium seat. A seat that he surely sat in before me. I am gripping the armrests with all my might.

Then there is a soft touch on my hand. A gentle reassurance that life goes on. I look to my right and stare into the eyes of my friend. They are dry. His brow, however, holds immense tension, as if he is being strong for both of us. Our fingers interlock-- this is not a romantic gesture, but rather one of complete friendship and comfort. We both exhale.

Later I will discover that he has let go of his emotions in not as public a manner. The difference between me, an actress prepared for anyone to see me, and someone who's domain is in the back of the theater, leaning over a world of light created by the touch of his fingers. And what powerful fingers they are.

In that moment, I wish that I could have been there for him as well. I would have wanted to embrace him and give him the reassurance and friendship that he so generously gave me. But he wouldn't have waned it. He wasn't capable of fathoming what would happen if someone saw a crack in his iron facade. So I let it lie.

I don't remember every speech or song from that evening. What I recall is having someone who knew where I had been, who understood how I was feeling, share a moment with me. Life will go on. It has. I cherish that moment, that early summer evening, so bittersweet.

I hated the loss of my mentor for so long. I was devastated and frustrated by it-- the first time I was truly forced to grieve. But now I see that life is full of lessons and moments. I am stronger. And I was given this beautiful memory of a friendship that continues to surprise me.