8-Ball, Standing Behind
Death is all around me these days. From the poor Indonesian man that met his end on the bumper of a car (brain-dead and dying for his wife and mother to see); to my grandmother slowly, sadly, fading away; to my friend Heather.
I used to have a huge crush on Heather. I watched her with awe for many years. She was this silly, cute, crazy, girl that always changed a room the moment she graced the doorway. The life of the party, she always made you dance harder and laugh more. I remember many a long night with the girl we affectionately called 8-Ball (she was a ballerina, with a wicked grin, on the pool table).
I remember the evenings she was kind enough to drive me home or cover me with a blanket as I dozed off on her couch. I remember finding reasons to stay longer or party harder so I could talk more, make it last longer. When I got back from Peace Corps, Heather was one of the few people that took the time to re-learn who I was. She never made me feel as far away as I should have felt. Her only concern was that I have fun while I was with her—I always did.
My friend is dead.
She had left us all a long time ago. I remember calling her, reaching-out, only to get an empty sound on the other end of the line. I left messages and I tried, but I didn’t do everything I could. Even now, as I dedicate myself to helping others, I realize I couldn’t even help one I loved. Twenty-nine years old, my friend is dead. I, we, she, failed.
Whoever was with Heather as she was overdosing drove her to 35th and Dodge and dumped her on the sidewalk, calling 911 as they drove away. I wonder if they feel shamed, if they are haunted by her death, as haunted as I am (as shamed as I am).
Death is all around me these days. From the poor Indonesian man that met his end on the bumper of a car (brain-dead and dying for his wife and mother to see); to my grandmother slowly, sadly, fading away; to my friend Heather.
I used to have a huge crush on Heather. I watched her with awe for many years. She was this silly, cute, crazy, girl that always changed a room the moment she graced the doorway. The life of the party, she always made you dance harder and laugh more. I remember many a long night with the girl we affectionately called 8-Ball (she was a ballerina, with a wicked grin, on the pool table).
I remember the evenings she was kind enough to drive me home or cover me with a blanket as I dozed off on her couch. I remember finding reasons to stay longer or party harder so I could talk more, make it last longer. When I got back from Peace Corps, Heather was one of the few people that took the time to re-learn who I was. She never made me feel as far away as I should have felt. Her only concern was that I have fun while I was with her—I always did.
My friend is dead.
She had left us all a long time ago. I remember calling her, reaching-out, only to get an empty sound on the other end of the line. I left messages and I tried, but I didn’t do everything I could. Even now, as I dedicate myself to helping others, I realize I couldn’t even help one I loved. Twenty-nine years old, my friend is dead. I, we, she, failed.
Whoever was with Heather as she was overdosing drove her to 35th and Dodge and dumped her on the sidewalk, calling 911 as they drove away. I wonder if they feel shamed, if they are haunted by her death, as haunted as I am (as shamed as I am).
posted by Banda-aid at 3:31 PM
1 Comments:
Hey Zach, its me... Robb. You know your crazy cousin who's still in Omaha. I finally got to your blog. I'm limited on time here, but I wanted to say a quick hi. I promise to write ya more soon. I glad to hear you're doing well.
Robb
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