It was the summer between our freshman and sophomore years in high school. The two of us planned the trip down to the most minute detail. Our bicycles were outfitted with new tires, and we packed light for that 85-mile weekend biking trip from Rochester to Niagara Falls. We even got a pair of Midland walkie-talkies (yes – I remember the brand). A week before the trip, we did a practice run along the Barge Canal at dusk – my friend Steve riding out of sight and me alone on the trail, talking to him. The conversation went something like this.
“Steve, this is Lee, out.”
“Read you loud and clear, Steve, out”
“There’s a dog here, Steve. He likes me and wants to hang out with me. I can’t leave him. Lee, out.”
“I’ll be right over. Steve, out.”
Several minutes of silence later, I see Steve in the distance.
“I smell a skunk. Steve, out.”
“Yes. It’s the dog. He got sprayed. Lee, out.”
“I’m not getting any closer, then. Lose the dog. Steve, out.”
“Can’t. He likes me. Lee, out.”
“Lose the f#CkIng dog. Steve, out.”
“I’ll have him jog alongside me. Maybe that will air out the smell. Lee, out.”
Well, the smell did not abate. I pedaled slowly enough for the dog to keep up with me. But Steve was moving faster and farther down a now dark trail. In trying to catch up to Steve, the dog fell back and disappeared.
It’s funny the ways in which we connect so randomly. The ways we must sometimes say goodbye despite everything in our hearts that doesn’t want to. I learned something about goodbyes that night on the trail by the canal.
A week later, we hit the road for the long ride – first to a Buffalo suburb to see one of Steve’s friends, then up to Niagara Falls and into Canada.
We discovered an access road that took us down to the base of the Horseshoe Falls. That was our go-to place every night on that trip – dark enough that no one saw us and quiet enough that no utility vehicles or tourists were around. The falls thundered so loudly that conversation between us was nearly impossible. Despite the investment we made in walkie-talkies on that trip, the best communication was just sitting there, not a word between us. I learned the power of silence on that trip. The falls were plenty loud, of course. But it was the greater silence that the falls informed – the silence of simply being, without explaining or saying a thing. The silence that trusted in a bond that needed nothing more to fill in the blanks. We were 15. Our friendship was five years old – a full third of our young lives. Who knew that we would become brothers?
So many years later, his wife called to tell me he took his own life. No walkie-talkie would ever connect us again. And like that poor dog on the trail, he dropped back, dropped out, and disappeared while my life kept moving forward with the reluctance of a shattered heart. I would never again hear his voice. Feel the bear hug of his friendship. But I knew how to be silent with him. And that’s what was left.
I have these wonderful memories. Fun times. Funny times. Hysterical times. Moving times. And this one came to me this evening, so I share. I almost can’t not share – they sometimes flow out of me like water through a broken faucet. Memories have hearts – they beat when they are shared. They come alive again, if just for that moment.
I’ve heard it said that when a loved one dies, a part of them stays in our hearts. But I wonder if it’s not the other way around. Because it feels like a piece of my heart went with him. I imagine that missing piece is still with him. That he’s taking good care of it. And that when I journey across that same river, he’ll be there with a smile to put me back together again. And no words will be necessary.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
