Kettering

I was 13 when we met, and I'd never pretend I knew you well.  You were a friend of a friend; we'd all talk sometimes after Film School Sunday mornings or we'd sit near one another at Selah Sunday nights.  I remember playing Guitar Hero or Rock Band together on game night, laughing and goofing off.  Later, when I dated your best friend, I remember visiting skeleton houses with you--we took turns pushing your wheelchair, and shouted down at you from half-finished windows.

And the hospital.  I visited you there.  What I remember best is the visceral shock I felt at seeing your laptop sitting innocently where your leg should have been.  And the quietness of the ride home after.

But while we were not good friends, while I never knew much about you or spent time alone with you, something about your life and death left an indelible mark on me that I haven't been able to shake.  I see hot air balloons and think of it, I hear certain songs and go back to that moment days before you left, when my mom said as gently as she could that you had the look, there was no coming back.  To the text I got at 3:00 on a normal afternoon, and the strange emptiness that followed.

Maybe it was that I was in my prime and felt myself invincible, yet watched you dwindle away, only a year older than me.  Maybe it was my overwhelming sensitivity to all kinds of injustice then, as I was mired in divorce and a new social climate.  More likely it was the first time I was ever faced with such an inescapably wrong outcome and reality.  Whatever the case, I haven't been able to escape your memory any more than I've been able to understand why someone, anyone like you should have to be ravaged at 16 and lose a battle with an unfeeling disease.

Whatever the case, Josh, I still remember you and seek to honor that memory.  I regret that I didn't know you better, but you taught me an incredible amount about the tenacity of the human spirit in the time I did spend with you.  Your memory continues to inform the way I value others and respect the sanctity of life.  I hope that wherever you are, you're happy and whole and smiling that infectious smile.  You earned that much and more.