Claim your space. Draw a circle of light around it. Push back against the dark.
Don't just survive. Celebrate. ~ Charles Frazier
This week, a high school classmate died suddenly of a stroke.Tom was 52, exactly 11 days older than me. Statistically, his death should not be a big surprise. One out of every 234 people will die between the ages of 45-54 and one in 97 of us will die between the ages of 55-64.
We graduated in 1979 from Denver High School, in Denver, Iowa. There were 97 of us and our class was nicknamed 'The Biggest and The Best'. To date, we remain the largest graduating class from Denver High.
We're a close-knit class; anybody who went to school in a small town understands this. It's not that you remained tight with your classmates, but you know everyone of them by name even 35 years later.
Thanks to Facebook, many of us have reconnected and remain in contact.
Tom and I had been friends in high school; we both lived on the blacktop outside of town and I would er bike to his house on Saturdays to hang out. We'd spoken briefly at our 20-year reunion; a warm exchange, a quick sharing of our lives after graduation, and that was it until news of his death this week.
Nothing makes one consider your own mortality more than the unexpected death of a peer. I do not feel as though I am just surviving this life, although at times, it is just that, surviving. It's what we do.
But we shouldn't forget to wonder. To consider even a gray and bruised sky beautiful. To stop and listen to the wind grab the last oak leaves. To stop for art and music and dance and poetry. To drowse in the late afternoon sun. To love our family and friends. And for heaven's sake, laugh. And often.
Godspeed, Tom. The Class of '79 is just a little smaller now.
