Sometimes writing is easy, as ideas and experiences flow like water, but other times, life is busy and unfair, with relentless turmoil and difficulty — and the writing with it.
This has been one of those weeks. I have not an emotion other than grief for which to write this story, and while that is unfortunate, such is life, sometimes. Writing is sometimes cathartic, but it is also sometimes such a burden. I don’t want to write about this, honestly, because it is painful. But I know, too, that writing about anything else would be impossible and unauthentic.
On October 22nd, a dear friend of mine from high school passed away very suddenly and very tragically. I am shocked. Devastated. I feel both numb and a pain that is palpable and demanding. People say only the good die young, and I’ve always hated that expression. Are those who live long, full lives not good? There is nothing good or fair or right about dying young. However, I think I understand it now.
Chris Bates is one of the best and closest friends my life has ever known. He was good in a way that everyone who knew him could acknowledge. He was so young, too young, and so full of life. If only the good die young, Chris is the truest, most pure example of good. He stood alongside me in my happiest and saddest moments of my adolescence and knew me through times where I wouldn’t have wanted to know myself.
Life is organic, though, and ever-changing, ever-ending, and Chris and I went separate ways for college like most everyone does. Still, we kept in touch, grabbing coffee when we were both home, exchanging brief but encouraging texts every so often, and keeping with each other via Facebook. We'd just spoken the Monday before his passing. It is torturous knowing that I will no longer receive his quick-witted responses to things I’ve said or done, nor will I hear of all the things through which he poured his life and heart into. It seems unfair that Chris cannot continue on in this world because he certainly made it better. Chris’ heart was so big, always on his sleeve and in return he was, and is, so holistically loved.
I know this because I have seen the hundreds of posts from my classmates, Chris’ classmates, his friends, family, loved ones, and people who only heard of his impact. Inarguably his life was too short. It is a rarity, though, I think, to produce so much love. The way Chris lived his life was exemplary. So busy. So kind. So willing. He, himself, was a vessel for so much good. It is reassuring, if only slightly, to know that other people saw this, felt this, and were affected by his good, alongside me.
I will remember him by the smile that was forever genuine and welcoming, nonjudgmental and whole hearted. I will remember the Chris who was passionate and opinionated, willing to argue tactfully, and still call you a friend despite disagreement. I’ll remember work ethic— the hardworking, blood, sweat and tears baseball in which he played, and the selfless way he treated his teammates in sport and in life. I will try my very best to always remember Chris’ attitude of unparalleled spirit, kindness, and his sincere capacity for love. There was always room at Chris’ table and I will endeavor for mine to be the same.
I will fall short, because I am so, so flawed. I am angry because Chris’ passing is unfair. The world is a little darker without his light. Still, though, I am unable to articulate just how happy I am that my life was given this light, even if it was ripped away far too soon. I am glad, too, for the people I know, the people I love, the people I don’t know but also loved Chris, and thusly were also shown his light. There’s not a way you could miss it, and what a commonality to have. I cannot think of someone who would be prouder than Chris to be uniting people. I hope he is sitting, blissfully, somewhere, smiling down on that unification, and I hope, too, that it will bring about change that will endorse his truth, his kindness, and his love for which I am so grateful.
