For some reason this has cast me into a very emotional mood tonight (well morning, it is 3am). I typed my best friend’s name – the one from high school that died a year after graduation – and stumbled onto an essay his mother wrote about her grief. It was so odd to find relics of a person that was gone before all this technology came about and to find their footprints across the digital world. A bit more sychronous is that his birthday would have been one week from now. It has been over 13 years since he passed. His mom writes:
We planted flowers at the high school where rehearsals were going on in anticipation of the play that will start next week. … One time earlier in the winter, I had stopped by to clean up around the memorial and a man and his son, who was probably 7 or 8, were waiting outside the school door to enter for basketball practice. As I worked, I saw the man watching me. He finally said, "Who was Jeremy Hardin." I told him, "He is my son." How distant I felt telling a stranger who was only mildly interested that it was my son who had died and was memorialized at this school. He asked no more, but merely said that that explained my gardening activities. I wanted to tell him more, to tell him the great things about my son; what a loss it was to me, to the world, but I instinctively knew this man didn’t want to hear anymore and I chose not to share my story with him. I am very protective of Jeremy’s memory and share it now only when I feel someone truly cares.