Nate

I had a neighbor growing up. A friend. Not a best friend, but one of those people you've known since shortly after you were out of diapers, which means they've seen every awkward and awesome stage of life you've gone through.

His name was Nate.

Growing up as essentially an only girl-child of a (I guess) well-to-do family, I was encouraged to play with dolls and Playmobil in place of Tonka trucks and Legos. But oh how I longed to be one of the boys and be taught how to shoot and use a knife or throw a punch and survive in the wild. The other main thing I was "deprived" of was video games. Other than a console designed and sold years before I was born, I was not allowed a Sega or Dreamcast or Playstation or Nintendo till I was in my teens - though I'll save that for a different rant.

Except for the rare days I got to hang out at Nate's.

On the floor of his living room, I fell in love with Zelda and Mario and those plastic trees I'd try to create a forest with on the large Lego sheets. I first heard of Korn from a poster on his bedroom wall, and he was one of the few who never teased me for speaking my mind. He had a cat named Thunderclese. What kind of kid names their cat Thunderclese? One you want to be friends with, for sure.

Upon reaching high school everyone drifted apart, as per the norm, and we occasionally gave/received the "nod" while passing between classes. Both our parents had apparently taken the exact same course on "How to Punish Your Misbehaving-Yet-Actually-Pretty-Normal Teenager", and often we'd find the other grounded and restricted from driving to and from school, so we would trade rides home. He was witty and smart, as most witty people are, and the flowing conversation made the 45 minute drive felt like no time at all.

Sitting in the blistering sun during graduation practice, barely able to contain my glee at finally being free of the prison commonly referred to as high school, I couldn't help but think Nate was one of the few people I actually looked forward to keeping in touch with and discovering what paths life took him on.

That summer, after 7 years of saying I would, I was finally repainting my room. My phone chimed with a new text message, and I climbed down the ladder. I needed more paint anyways.

I flipped open my phone to read the message (yes, this was back in the day when it was called SMS not iMessage and iPhones were only for the slaves of AT&T). My BFF was informing me the memorial service for Nate would be held the next day at the park.

I was incredibly confused. You mean the other Nate? A good-natured kid who hadn't survived high school as intact as most. It didn't even occur to me that it could be my Nate, my friend, my neighbor, someone I'd known essentially my whole life yet I didn't know as well as I should. How could it be?

But it was.

I set down the phone without replying, refilling the paint roller and climbing back up the ladder to continue covering the bright bubblegum pink of my childhood. To the rest of the world, I might have just gotten a message that the movie time had been rescheduled. I was fine. No tears, no fainting, none of that crap you see on tv.

The roller ran dry again, and the thought finally occurred to me that perhaps my parents might like to know. 'Cause they watched him grow up too. He was there in all my preschool pictures, yearbooks, and field trips. So I slowly climbed down the ladder (I have an irrational fear of ladders, but not heights), set the roller carefully in the tray so it wouldn't dump blue paint everywhere, and went up the stairs three at a time as was typical. Consequently, I arrived in my parents room out of breath, and due to my respiratory distress, no emotion appeared on my face.

To this day, I cannot remember the words exchanged. The only vivid memory is that I couldn't even get the message out. I teared up and began sobbing before I even said his name.

At this point I didn't know he'd been driving late at night, speeding (as everyone does, if you say you don't you're a liar), swerved to avoid a suspected deer and hit a tree instead. I didn't know his father had been taking his mother to the airport less than an hour after, and recognized the car and stopped only to discover their baby was dead. I didn't know what the first responders meant when they said he died instantly, though years later when my instructor explained the "three impacts" of a car accident on the second night of the EMT course, I snuck out to splash cold water on my face and hide my tears. I didn't know this was three days ago, and that both my parents and I had driven past the accident scene several times since it was on the main route out of the mountains and into civilization.

I didn't know anything, except that my friend, my neighbor, a shining personality I'd known since I was three, was just...gone.

We went to the memorial the next night. I saw familiar faces from high school I hadn't expected to see for another ten years, and others I'd seen less than a week before. It was a reunion of sorts. Many of my teachers were there, including Mrs. Besterman, to whom I owe my love of reading. We all laughed and smiled and said "How have you been?" but no one really meant it. I didn't realize it then, but that's when I discovered how reassuring tradition and ritual can be. You know what to do when you can think of nothing else to do.

There was a microphone set up, and many people took advantage of it. I heard stories of Nate that were new to me, sides of him I never knew. But I wasn't brave enough to step up to the microphone. In my selfish way I was jealous. How could I get up there and explain to over a thousand people why Legos and Zelda always had and always would remind me of Nate? The shy, partially broken being who was still amazed she'd survived the traumas of public high school couldn't. Maybe now, six years and a lifetime later, I could. Not then, not with all those people watching and listening and *judging*. On a day that should have been solely about someone else, all I could think of was me.

So this is my way of amending that. Though I'm still selfish, and probably always will be.

I have very few memories of...I'd guess you could call it the Irish Wake that occurred up in the mountains after the memorial was over and it had grown dark. One was of a friend, very close to Nate, definitely not 21 yet well past his third beer, sitting on the fence and raising a bottle and with a choked voice saying "This is for you, buddy." Several other memories were of awkwardly avoiding the main room, the one with all the food, because they had a photo montage of Nate playing on repeat. I uncovered my copy while unpacking a box from a recent move, and I still do not have the strength to watch it.

The other most poignant memory is of his girlfriend speaking at the memorial. I didn't know they were dating or that he'd even had a girlfriend, but if you'd known me then you'd consider that typical. She talked about his cooking, and how he taught her a complicated recipe I'm ashamed I can't remember the name of, but that it involved whisking butter. I didn't even know he liked to cook, though Nate is responsible for teaching me to add cinnamon to hot cocoa. He had a scholarship to UC Davis. I never knew. I wish I'd learned to be a better friend long before, not after.

One other thing she spoke of actually prompted words to coalesce so I could put them into a somewhat tangible form. She told the story of how Nate had graciously lent her his copy of the final Harry Potter book before he'd had a chance to read it himself, and his mother followed up with how she knew he hadn't snuck off to drink or for other nefarious purposes on a camping trip, because Nate had remained by the fire to read the Deathly Hallows, and when he returned and it was her chance to read the book, it smelled of campfire smoke.

Tonight, beside a firepit, I had an excellent evening with good food and great company. I got to see a sky so full of stars you could almost fall up into the atmosphere. But it wasn't until I returned to my room and pulled off my sweater that I caught the whiff of woodsmoke. Never before have I been able to adequately express the jumble of thoughts and feelings, but thanks to a generous helping of Jim Bean and the lingering scent of woodsmoke, I can.

I miss Nate. I miss him in a very selfish way. I refuse to permanently close my Facebook account for fear of losing the connection to his profile that can never be re-accepted, even if I never post anything to his wall. I won't get to share with him my discovered passion for Star Wars, or tell him that I *finally* got myself and N64 and am working my way through Ocarina of Time and that I'd appreciate his advice, or that I bought every Korn album, or that I splurged and indulged my inner child by spending waaaay too much money on several Lego sets yet none of them had trees.

Nate won't be at any reunions. I won't get to see him with Danny and Jessie and Abby and Julia and Jackie and Matt and Matt and everyone when we get together and share that special moment of having known these people pretty much our entire lives. We'll always have one missing.

I wasn't as close to Nate as I should have been. Whenever I see Legos or play Zelda or the smell of campfire smoke weaves it's way into my clothes, I remember him.

And I hope I never forget.