Grief, It’s Friends, And Mine.
For Daniel.
The water was the color of my eyes. Or at least the color they are now. There were lighter when I was younger. As if they have dulled each year the world has been unfair. And the world has been unfair.
But the water was the color of my eyes. We watched it, the waves from afar, sitting behind a bush smoking weed, at a lookout most people would come to for this very reason.
Knees touching, the five of us smoked out of an apple I’d seen only as something to eat a few weeks before. This was my second time doing this. The first, with this group as well, was in a cemetery. A story filled with laughter (from everyone), screams (from my best friend) and lies (from me, “Of course I had done this before!”). But tonight we were at a lookout, affectionately, if not unimaginatively, called “The Lookout”. And we passed around an apple, and there was more laughter, and there was more love, and we talked about school and each other and what we wanted to do when we weren’t near either.
When we decided we wanted to leave, Daniel offered me a ride on his back. This was something he did frequently. He was much larger than me. At that age, I resembled something closer to Kristin Chenoweth than a teenage boy. I of course hopped on, never refusing an opportunity to rest my tiny feet and relax. There was no reason for the piggy-back. He wasn’t coming to rescue me. I had not complained that my shoes were too small or the walk was too long. But that was the kind of person Daniel was. He wanted to be close to you, and help you, and remind you that he was needed. Something I don’t know he always felt, even though, he always was. He wanted to make you feel safe.
We lost Daniel last week. And although we had been out of touch for longer than either one of us would have liked, our group’s various bonds shifting, some strengthening, others evolving into something more faint, I now file through our memories and can’t help but smile.
My relationship with Daniel was complicated. And is inextricably tied to a part of me I hid for a long time. While in the closet the duration of High School, Daniel would repeatedly ask me over the years, with varying degrees of seriousness “are you gay?” He would whisper “It’s ok if you are?” Or shout “You’re gay! It’s fine!” Or ask me if I had a crush on the only out person in our class. He was, persistent. I of course was quick to deny. A reflex that had at that point become second nature. These questions, this probing, was embarrassing at best and infuriating at worst. I was shameful of who I was, an internalized wound on my character and I did not need another boy picking at that scab.
But Daniel came with no judgement. He never did. Something I didn’t come to recognize until years later. And now I look back on those moments with a fondness. A deep appreciation for a boy accepting someone different and trying to help them accept themselves. And while other boys weren’t as kind, he continued to be. He pushed for my own comfortability, however uncomfortable it was in my mind. He tried to make me feel safe. He made me feel safe.
When I told Daniel I wanted to be introduced to his friend group, but like, “secretly in a cool, casual way”, he didn’t just oblige, he was delighted. He began to invite me around and soon enough his people became my people. Daniel introduced me to my best friend, a woman he also loved, almost 10 years ago. This is a debt I can never repay but one I will try to; by loving her, deeply and unconditionally, the same way he loved us.
And this group we formed, Daniel included, became a life-line through High School and beyond. And they were the first people I called when I found out the news. And we cried and cried and it broke my heart. But I also knew we were safe, because I knew we had each other and I know he would have liked that. I know he would have laughed at the photos we sent in our group text. A conversation turned buoy for us all, as we navigated grief in different cities. He would have laughed at the photos of us drunk on the beach in Cambodia carrying puppies, photos of us at concerts we were honestly too young to go to, photos of us together. We were always all together. Photos of us safe. He worked hard to make us feel safe. I’d like to think we did the same.
Our junior year of High School, Daniel asked if we could sleep with the bathroom light on while while we roomed together in Spain during a two week school trip. He had declared point-blank on our first night he was afraid of the dark. I was admittedly surprised. This was coming from a boy who smirked more than he smiled. It was one of our more earnest moments, reminding me of his depth, reminding me of his heart. He wanted to feel safe. I knew the feeling. I kept the bathroom light on.
And now we are left with these memories. And I file through them, dropping any that don’t sparkle when I hold them up. He would have said those aren’t him. And he would have been right. But I’ll keep the good ones, and there are many. I will remember that smirk, and remember that smile. I will remember his hair, it entered the room before he did, notorious in its unruly nature. I will remember his heart. I will remember the way he muffled his giggles before he let them turn into a laugh. I will remember him. And I, we, will love these memories and we will love this boy, who loved us all. In this moment and forever. And tonight, I will be sure, to leave the bathroom light on.
