<HONEA EXPRESS: A Memory Written Out

It finally happened. Honea Express has moved to greener pastures, or possibly just out to pasture -- you make the call.

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Please pardon the dust and update your feed readers accordingly. Thank you - Whit

Thursday, July 24, 2008

A Memory Written Out

I just spent the better part of the evening looking at my high school yearbook. It was like sticking my head in a time machine. I was young and my hair was perfect. Apparently, I was really into INXS.

I was in a lot of pictures. I was popularish, in a non-jock, class clown, official emcee of all events and reader of morning announcements sort of way. I'm not sure how any of that happened, but that's how it was.

There was plenty to read in the yearbook, the 'stay cools' and 'have a good summers' and a seemingly endless sea of words that must have once held meaning- promises of friendships that last forever and the innocence of naive emotion. I found that I didn't know quite a few of the names, and the faces were familiar in a way more surreal than solid memory, as if I had sat next to them in a random waiting room or saw them on an infomercial. Many of them I could easily pass on the street and not even notice. Twenty years is funny like that.

Twenty years ago this month I was enjoying my last summer of high school. It was the final tour of bowling alleys and desert parties, cruising in crappy cars with crappy cassette players blaring The Cult or Too Short or Guns and Roses. Senior year was on the horizon and beyond it the unknown.

It seemed a good summer. It showed promise.

Twenty years ago this night I sat on the floor of my father's house with a handful of my closest friends. Someone may have brought pot. Someone may have snuck beer. We sat on the floor in the kitchen, my friends and I, and we told stories of times we had all shared and some that we didn't. We laughed and we hugged and we were happy to have each other.

That was the day that Curtis died.

Curtis was my cousin. You may remember him from a post or two back. He was one of the boys armed to the teeth with BB guns and dull Rambo knives. He was the one that ran the fastest and he was the one that led the cops back from which we came.

We sat in a circle on the floor of my father's kitchen and we told stories about us to us, and we talked about Curtis.

I spoke at the funeral. A 17-year-old boy standing beside a casket that held a 17-year-old boy and I told stories of times we had all shared and some that we didn't.

The service was standing room only. They said it was the largest they had ever had. I told that crowd of heavy hearts tales of silly things, of dares and truths, and I stood there with tears in my eyes and I heard them laugh and then I felt their hugs and we were happy to have each other.

I wrote things, something for the yearbook and something for the paper. I used cliches and words of heaven, just days, it turns out, before I stopped believing in such places and instead started to lie awake at night hoping that they exist.

I wrote that 17 was too young to die, and it still is.

And twenty years is too long to be gone, for anyone.

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