Remembering Adam

Three years ago today, a piece of the world was shattered. A young man -- a boy, always, in my mind -- barely twenty-seven years old, died. My good friend's son, a veritable brother to my own children since they were babies, a child who grew to call me mom, didn't wake up. 

Adam. Gone three years. I remember where I was when I received the news. I remember what I was doing. I remember grasping at straws, suggesting to my friend that she was making this up. Why would I make this up? she asked me. She had just received the worst phone call a parent could ever receive, but she still had the wherewithal to make me feel like an idiot. 

I remember how a fog descended, how I walked around that evening (I was on vacation) feeling as if I was no longer part of the world around me but just an observer. Wondering how all these people could be smiling, laughing even. A piece of the world, the piece I had inhabited, had been shattered. Irreparably. Smiling, laughing -- the things I used to do. 

Time doesn't necessarily heal, but it lifts the fog and it allows you back in and it allows for smiling and laughing and it even allows you to lose the fleeting bit of perspective you had gained once and moan and wallow about the most insignificant hurts and indignities. No amount of time, though, will ever help me to understand this, ever help me to even dare to imagine how it feels to walk in my friend's shoes. I pretend to know what she should do, how she should continue to breathe, much less live life, and I'm not shy about sharing my ignorant advice. The truth is I don't ever want to go there, even in my imagination. I can't. 

On the handful of times I have visited Adam, with my friend, at the cemetery, she has come armed with coffee. One for her, one for me, one for Adam. She pours it on his grave, and we watch it seep through the soil. She told me she visited the other day, and had to use the coffee to melt the sheet of ice that had obscured his stone. Why hadn't I thought of that when I was shoveling my driveway. 

We talk about Adam all the time. My friend lights up when she speaks of him, just as she does when she speaks of her living son, just as we all do when we speak of our children. She no longer lives in fear of the question from strangers -- how many kids do you have? Sometimes she just says two sons. Other times, she explains. There are no rules when things go so awry. No playbook. 

Adam lives on, for each of us, with our own unique memories. My mother's favorite memory of Adam is the way he hugged my daughter, his friend, virtually a sister, when they had run into each other unexpectedly. I don't remember that particular hug, but I can picture it, exactly. Adam gave great hugs. 

I will toast you today, Adam, with my morning brew. I will keep my phone nearby, in case your mom wants to hear me spew some silly advice, or maybe just be there. You captured countless hearts and minds when you were here, and, there, you remain, always.