Dead Or Alive

Imagine the sweetest boy you knew in adolescence.
Imagine that boy was like family to you. Not the kind of family you're forced to see, but the kind that's there supporting you when things get tough, the kind that you can trust with anything. Chosen family.
Imagine nights spent as frightened kids with parents who seemed again to be teetering on the brink of something terrifying. Imagine lying with that friend in bed, holding him, or he holding you, just for comfort.
Imagine you could trust this friend to never, ever try to betray the trust of that comfort. Imagine your relationship, intense but platonic.

Imagine around seventeen years old, a kiss. Imagine how confusing that kiss is. Imagine the thrill of knowing you already love each other and the fear of knowing that friendships were often ruined by the introduction of a sexual element. Imagine that by the time you decide to take the chance, this sweet boy, your most trusted friend, has picked up, without warning and moved across the country. Imagine he claimed it was because "there's nothing for me here".

Imagine beautiful letters describing the play of the sunlight over the ocean, whale watching during another perfect sunrise. Imagine a deep longing to see him again. Imagine giving up that dream as an impossibility.

Imagine how thrilled you are when he announces he's back. Distressed to hear that he left BC because "There's nothing left for me there anymore", but still, pleased to have him back, determined to show him that there are people here who love him and care about him and are here for him.

Imagine inviting him to your wedding and watching with amusement as he dances around the dance floor, waving the garter he caught over his head. Imagine wondering why he looks so haggard and ragged. Worrying, cuz he really kinda looks like shit.

Imagine how dissapointed you are, a year later, when he stands you up for the third time in a row.

A mutual friend from ages gone by informs you he's gay. You're blown away. A more reputable source informs you, less than a year later, that he's a crackhead. Tears well up in your eyes and threaten to spill down your cheeks but you hold it in. It's the first time you've seen this other friend in nine years and the first time you've met his wife and you're determined to have a nice day.

One drizzly morning a young, articulate panhandler approaches you, asking for change. You refuse, barely looking up, but something in his face catches your attention as he walks away. Another morning he approaches again and you try to get a good look at the face, but his eyes are downcast and he hurries off when you demonstrate your lack of change.

A friend of mine told me recently that the only reason we recognize friends who had faded into the deepest recesses of our memories is that they recognize us. It's that moment of mutual recognition that brings them to the forefront of your mind again.

Is it him? I've seen him a few times since. I've dug up old photos, wedding photos, to catch a glimpse of what his face truly looked like eight years ago. We made eye contact last weekend. The eyes were wrong. All wrong. My friend's eyes were bright and vivid. Lively. This man's eyes are sunken and dull. Then again, crack'll do that to you, now won't it?

He doesn't fit my stereotypical crackhead model, so I find myself in denial. THIS person is articulate and generally clean. THIS person has a clear sense of self awareness.

I know I should resign myself to the thought that my friend is dead. This is not the boy I used to sleep beside. I know that the last thing my life needs right now is for me to strike up a new friendship with an apparently homeless drug addict. Desperate people are dangerous. I know that I can't save him and I probably can't even help him. I know that trying is just setting myself up for heartbreak.

I know that I love that boy Steven as much as I ever did.
I know that the girl I used to be would be ashamed of me if I ever turned my back on him.

What I don't know, is what I'm going to do next, and that's a bit disorienting.