EASTER

Ten years ago, on Easter Sunday, two of my best friends died.

In the decade since, I’ve lived several lives. Different homes, jobs, driving a lot. Thinking out loud to myself on highways through Wisconsin and Minnesota and Iowa. I was this person, and that one, too. Cut my hair, trimmed my beard. Looked in a mirror and watched myself grow up. I live 180 miles away from where I did back then. I have a fiancé, a house, a yard that I mow with an electric mower. Cats and a dog that I feed and pet and look in their eyes.

Two of my best friends died, and each life I live holds onto that. I can’t help it. It’s a wound that has never quite healed.

It feels bad and I don’t like it.

I miss my friends. It is sharp on weekend afternoons, when I’d like to see them. When we would daydrink and chainsmoke and listen to punk rock music. Hit golf balls. Watch the 1960s Batman show while drinking coffee and make jokes. I remember the last time we hung out. We were sitting in an El Camino and smoking weed and watching the moon. It slowly climbed over the clouds. It didn’t feel like a Last Time, but why would it? It was another great memory in a growing anthology. But now that book is closed. It has all been written. I’m sad.

I’ve talked to each of them after they died.

Cory came to me in a dream, a couple of weeks later. In the dream, I was sitting in my car on my lunchbreak, smoking cigarettes. Nothing remarkable. He knocked on the passenger side door and asked to come into the car. “Yeah, dude, yeah!” I said. He told me he was kind of fading in and out between the world and something else. Which is weird, right. That’s more like how he would phrase it, and not how I would think of it. In my dreambrain. He said he was okay. I woke up and felt like it was significant.

Not long ago, I had a very weird dream. I was on an airplane, and as we were about to take off the stewardesses suddenly had all of us get out of the plane and go back into the airport, because something was wrong mechanically with the plane. We were all milling about in the boarding area, very agitated, and then I saw my old friend Tyler. He was heavily scarred, covered in blood. I think that was my brain reminding me he was dead? And I was like “Oh shit, man. So good to see you!” and we laughed and cracked wise for a couple of minutes and I said to him ” You know we all still love the hell out of you, we give you shit a bit, but everybody loves you,” and he was crying and smiling. He was happy and sad.

Ten years evaporates so quickly. I learned to be bold. To kiss her when the moment feels right. Courage in the moment. I’m a person still. A lot of the ink in my story was scribed by these friends. I was made in a rural Wisconsin manor. I hear punk rock music when I walk down a sidewalk. I’m so glad I knew them.

I’ll never meet people like that again.