El Pueblo Viejo

Grief.

From the Latin prefix "Grixes" meaning "to kick"; and the stem "eff" meaning "in the gut."

I don't know Latin. None of that is actually true. Regardless, grief still feels that way. Since this new year has begun, this world has lost two young fathers. Both were 29. Both went to sleep and didn't wake up. Both left two little ones behind. Both had found love, or at least found love again. Both still had parents who were faced with burying their children. Both deaths are heartbreaking.

I am not writing this to deal with the idea of death. As a great song puts it "death is just too full, and man is so small." That is what I need to know of death right now. It is full. I am small.

What I am writing about has to do with death, in the sense that death is the event that has brought this to my attention. But let us let death be what it is; every one's eventual end and that which we know is all present in our lives no matter what we think of it.

What we all must reconcile in our lives is the moment when we are aware of how far away our childhood really is from us today. Losing two childhood friends and thinking about all the people back in my hometown that are dealing with their loss not in memory but in their daily lives, tears me apart. I wish that I could be sitting somewhere on the East side of Tucson right now, maybe Chuy's, maybe Puerta Viallarta, maybe Eeggee's, maybe Luke's or Pat's Chilli Dogs. Maybe I could go back to Fortunato's and get what my mom used to order for me when I was 6; a yoohoo and a bread stick. I could go back to McDonald Park and walk the base paths that I shared with my friend Anthony. I could throw a couple pitches from the little league mound there, and pretend that he is still behind the plate waiting to catch that pitch. I could walk a quarter mile up the road, and walk the track of my high school. I could pick at the grass of the football field, or walk through the locker room were so much time was spent encouraging each other, but also full of pain that is unconscionable. I could find Shem's locker again. I could remember that guy's smile, or the way he could walk up to you and get you to smile within 10 seconds. I wish I could be anywhere in Tucson right now. I wish I could buy my old friends a beer, and just reconnect. But I left. I had my reasons, and I still would make the same decision again if I had the chance. However, I miss my home. I miss the friends who knew me at Tanque Verde, and Emily Grey. Those of us who walked the halls of Sabino, and leaned on each other in some of the darkest times.

What do we do when we start to lose the pieces of our childhood? What do we do when the memories fade, and when we can no longer drive past our old school to re spark our memory? Yesterday, a great man was remembered. I hadn't talked to Anthony since high school, but growing up he was one of my great friends. We were similar in a lot of ways. We could have past for cousins. We played on YMCA Basketball teams together, little league teams, and even a small time on the same football team in high school. In January, my community said goodbye to Shem. Ever since I met Shem in junior high, he was one of the smoothest, funniest guys I had met. All the girls liked him. He was tough. He wouldn't put up with much. But he also just wanted to be people's friend. In both funerals, I pictured who all was there. People for good and bad, I miss seeing. Death is hard enough, but when we think it is not supposed to happen yet, and when it takes away pieces of our childhood; I feel I am at a great loss.

I guess that I am lucky on some level. I remember them with the memories of a child. I remember them full of life, young and ready to take on the world. And in their own ways, they changed the world they lived in. I guess that is all we can hope for in this life. That we can stay connected enough to who we really are, both past and present, to somehow give all we can to the future to make a difference to someone. Maybe memories of our childhood are waiting right around the corner, waiting to bring to life a memory that drives us forward, or maybe a memory that will stop us in our tracks and make us recalculate who we really are. Either way, I believe that we all have that child still in us. They want to be protected, listened to, loved. They want to remind us of the awe we once had for this world. They want to remind us to enjoy the simple things, and to find joy in friendship. They want us to be confident because they fear nothing. (other than imaginary monsters; not quite sure how to deal with those still.) But even when death breaks into our inner child's clubhouse, it is not strong enough to take away the evidence of our lives. Regardless of how much time we have on this on this rock, our presence will still be remembered. Your presence is an honor to be around. Your presence has made a difference. Just you being you. I am getting back to me being me; to honoring the power of my presence as well. And a lot of that has to do with all of you. I love you Tucson. I always will. You will always be home.