talk
It is what is inside a person that is hard to know.
The main office at school had asked me to bring Lance, a brilliant high school senior and my good friend, his homework. It was the first school day he had ever missed.
That took me to his bungalow in the Richmond District of San Francisco, to a modest family home – much like my own. I had been invited many times before. It was a sunny afternoon.
When I entered his bedroom, which was behind the garage, or basement, as we called it then, I saw a music stand. It glistened and felt warm.
I had given up piano to play sports, only to be amazed that I didn’t really know this boy, even though we’d had the same classes for the last three years.
I asked, “What instrument do you play?”
“Violin.”
In addition to being a straight-A student, he played violin!
I gushed with praise.
“If only you knew what my life is like,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Maybe someday I will tell you.”
What is he talking about?
Before he turned away, I witnessed something cross his face, like an overcast sky, yet I said nothing.
This lamb-like ally with gentle determination graduated with the Greek and Latin prizes and went on to Yale University.
Twenty-four years later, my mother read his obituary, published here and in Paris, France.
I wrote to Lance’s mother and explained that I could not attend his funeral in San Francisco. I gushed again, saying what a wonderful human being Lance was. She thanked me for the letter but did not elaborate.
In 2020, I found his brother, Mike, an MD in Daly City, on the edge of the city. I gushed again, carefully asking questions, starting with why Lance was living in Paris.
Mike told me the cause of death, which is unimportant. There are many causes of death, and they are all unimportant. What is, is that my good friend had died.
I remembered the conversation Lance and I had when we were 17.
I should have been a better friend. I should have sat him down and pressed him on what was wrong. If I had, these are the words I would have murmured:
“Lance, you are my friend and always will be. Do nothing. Put your hand in mine and know I love you the same as before. I have a neighbor down the street. His name is Kevin. You know him. One day, as we walked home up the hill, Kevin said, ‘If anyone ever bothers you, tell me.’ Lance, I have a protector, and now you have one, too – me.”
But, on a sunny high school afternoon, that talk never happened.
The main office at school had asked me to bring Lance, a brilliant high school senior and my good friend, his homework. It was the first school day he had ever missed.
That took me to his bungalow in the Richmond District of San Francisco, to a modest family home – much like my own. I had been invited many times before. It was a sunny afternoon.
When I entered his bedroom, which was behind the garage, or basement, as we called it then, I saw a music stand. It glistened and felt warm.
I had given up piano to play sports, only to be amazed that I didn’t really know this boy, even though we’d had the same classes for the last three years.
I asked, “What instrument do you play?”
“Violin.”
In addition to being a straight-A student, he played violin!
I gushed with praise.
“If only you knew what my life is like,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Maybe someday I will tell you.”
What is he talking about?
Before he turned away, I witnessed something cross his face, like an overcast sky, yet I said nothing.
This lamb-like ally with gentle determination graduated with the Greek and Latin prizes and went on to Yale University.
Twenty-four years later, my mother read his obituary, published here and in Paris, France.
I wrote to Lance’s mother and explained that I could not attend his funeral in San Francisco. I gushed again, saying what a wonderful human being Lance was. She thanked me for the letter but did not elaborate.
In 2020, I found his brother, Mike, an MD in Daly City, on the edge of the city. I gushed again, carefully asking questions, starting with why Lance was living in Paris.
Mike told me the cause of death, which is unimportant. There are many causes of death, and they are all unimportant. What is, is that my good friend had died.
I remembered the conversation Lance and I had when we were 17.
I should have been a better friend. I should have sat him down and pressed him on what was wrong. If I had, these are the words I would have murmured:
“Lance, you are my friend and always will be. Do nothing. Put your hand in mine and know I love you the same as before. I have a neighbor down the street. His name is Kevin. You know him. One day, as we walked home up the hill, Kevin said, ‘If anyone ever bothers you, tell me.’ Lance, I have a protector, and now you have one, too – me.”
But, on a sunny high school afternoon, that talk never happened.