Remnants

            It rained the evening of your funeral.  I remember, because the smooth sole of my heels slipped on the wet pavement as I walked from my car to the MSU Alumni Building.  It was how I felt: treadless.  Unable to move in the heavy downpour that had recently thundered in on my heart.

            I didn't know you for long.  I was attracted to your writing posted on our class forum before I ever saw your face.  I mentioned it as we walked side by side in Wilson Hall after class.  You said you admired mine as well.  You said it “re-inspired you to the core of your being.”  You were strong, carelessly handsome, laughed without concern, thought with great depth, and wrote with uncanny guts.  Effortlessly we would slide into conversations about our cavernous souls, the order of the cosmos, and virtue.  Your writing egged me on, sparking my thoughts into an ever-increasing blaze of idea and admiration.  We had a few meals together, a walk in the dry fields behind your house, and late-night study sessions in the Library.  I was touched by your intriguing soul, and the way in which you were continually confused at my self-consciousness.  Life happened, and we drifted apart come the end of the semester.  I thought you were upset at me. 

I saw you again twelve days before Spring Break, in front of the printers where I could nearly guarantee to find you (English majors print everything) and you gave me an immediate tight hug.  You delved into questions regarding my job writing for the University Paper, and shared with me your opportunity to go to London on a Senior trip.  You were every bit as ecstatic, intellectual, and intelligent as always.  My brief romantic feelings for you had long passed, replaced by great respect and desire to know the man you were.  I was happy for our brief reunion.  It touched my soul. 

Then over Spring Break, I received an email from our mutual professor, Doug Downs.  You had been in a fatal accident in London.

My friend, the one with the insatiable mind, the one who always doubted his own skills and pushed harder and harder to achieve greater heights, the one touched with the gift of amazingly creative and talented writing, the one with whom I fixed that high-tech blender that wouldn't start, the one who always encouraged and applauded my writing.

            You were gone.  Still are.

I miss those ugly blue shoes you wore far too often; I miss seeing them in front of the printers.  You pushed me, you encouraged me, you made me believe I could be something greater.  The world was touched for a very brief time by a very bright light, and is dimmer for its absence.  You loved the quote "Let be be finale of seem," from a poem by Wallace Stevens.  I now realize it means it's okay to let you go.  But it's not actually the end.

I miss you, Aaron.  You were touched by God’s incredible handiwork.  And in turn, you touched me.