My mother called this morning to let me know about the death of a friend of the family. We knew it was coming. He'd been ill for a long time. Hospice had been caring for him in his home. His family had been gathering.
Still, it hit me harder than I'd thought it would.
Dad knew Jerry through work. Our families had been very close when I was younger. They had two boys around my age. Our moms were on the same bowling team. We went tent camping, canoeing, and to the shooting range for target practice. We got together for dinners, birthday celebrations and holidays. Listened to Fleetwood Mac. Drank my first beer, Pabst Blue Ribbon, in their back yard. The boys and I used to go to movies and out roller skating. Jerry, himself, was friendly, cheerful, robust, and big-hearted. For awhile, at least, they were really like a second family to me.
Then we all drifted apart, as people sometimes do.
My parents and theirs didn't get together any more. The boys, like me, grew up, got married and had families of their own. I hadn't seen them in years, much less talked to them. Perhaps the occasional Christmas card, but that was all.
Then I heard that Jerry was ill. Dad started seeing Jerry again, when he was in town. I knew that he was getting worse. I kept thinking, "I should call. I should write. I should do... something." But I never did. I never told them that I was thinking of them. And now, all I can do, is send flowers and a card. Heartfelt, but too little, too late. And nothing can ever change that.
I'm not writing this to feel sorry for myself. Just a reminder that if someone in your life has meant something to you -- a friend, a mentor, a relative... even an acquaintance -- tell them. Don't let it wait.
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