I remember someone tell me that we run out of ideas when we reject our own story.
I can’t help but ask myself, what do I care about? I’ve been told before the lack of stories isn’t the problem, but rather the unwillingness to share our own. I don’t feel like I’m unwilling to share my story – I simply believe that I, like many others, have no idea where to start.
So instead, I’ll tell you a story about my favorite spot in the park. It is a tree, a lovely tree standing near a pond where several geese and one swan reside with low branches so you can climb it until you can barely see the ground. My Danish heritage tells me that swans are worthless creatures that will not potentially, but definitely bite your face off, while my American side allows me to see the beauty in those ugly ducklings. The day after I received the news of a friend who had passed away, I came to this tree for the first time, looking for solace. I sat up in that tree for hours, just listening to the sounds of the water and the birds and the tree surrounding me, taking in everything he would now miss out on.
His favorite color was green, I remembered that. It seemed fitting that his absence warranted the fact that nothing was green anymore. Granted, it was January, and it was freezing. January 30th. That’s when I heard the news. Everything was dead, including him. I hadn’t thought about my friend in a while, as I had known him in high school – and we all try to forget that time. I’d just been so overwhelmed with what was going on near me, with college and a new romance and the normal drama with friends and challenges in school. When I received the news of his death, I was alone in the dining hall enjoying my Cap’n Crunch. I didn’t even realize I was crying until I felt salt on my lips and my friend was standing in front of me, snapping and clapping to get my attention.
I don’t remember much of that day. All of a sudden nothing seemed to matter. Now that his was no longer beating, I couldn’t help but realize how hard my heart was beating – as cliché as it sounds, it felt as if it was trying to beat for the two of us, as if it was trying to revive him as he had once revived me.
But I suppose that’s another story – to make it short, I was the butt of a classic mean girls situation. Simply put, his daily kindness really helped me. We were never close, and he never knew my story; nor did I know his. We said hi in the hallways, hugged one another regularly and laughed at the same jokes. His smile was effortless, and it was directed at me. Once again, please excuse the cliché nature of the sentence, but even though we weren’t close he made me feel like I wasn’t alone. And, at the time, that meant the world to me.
So here I sit in my tree, thinking about my friend that I never expected to speak to again, but never expected to lose. The whole keep your “friends close, but your enemies closer” thing… I disagree. Smile at your enemies, at friends, and strangers, as he’d smiled at me. Do for others what he did for me.
And never forget to thank those who do.
