non-fiction writing class...

April 10, 2000
"Don't it always seem to go, you don't know what you got till it's gone? They paved Paradise, and put up a parking lot."

Amy Grant belted out this line on the radio the other day as I was driving back from Ames. These simple lyrics jump-started my brain. I began to evaluate my life and the things that I tend to take for granted. The things that I don't know I have until they are no longer there. Maybe they didn't ever pave over my Paradise in the literal sense of the word. I don't lament the loss of a favorite oak tree that became the Seven-Eleven parking lot. But, they, or rather Fate, as I see it, wanted me to see what I had, and what I could easily lose. It was one of those moments that stick with you. You can see it in such vivid detail and play it over and over in your head despite how young you were. And sometimes, even now, as you are doing some mundane task, or looking at some ordinary object, you are reminded of that day. The day you suddenly realized you had something great, but lost it.

I was five years old when my first best friend died. I know that at five years old I was perhaps too young to graps the implications of such a tragedy, yet as I listened to the refrain piped through my car speakers, I began to remember what it feels like to know that your individual paradise has been crushed.

We went to the same pre-school. We spent all our time together. We were the classic definition of best buds. We were content to play with each other, instead of other children. When the teachers used to split us up "to socialize and increase our friendship and sharing skills," like heat-seeking missiles intent on finding that one locked target, we'd scan the playground, sight, zero-in and proceed. In front of the teachers we were always casual and simply ambled over to each other. But we knew we were drawn by comfort of familiarity and fun. We played with the same toys, shared our snacks, sat in the shade of the same tree, and built block towers in the grass.

This was my version of Paradise. This was my simply childhood innocence and indestructible logic. Everything made sense. Brad and I. We made sense. We, and only we, got our secret jokes, knew our secret language and understood our world of blurred make-believe and reality.

Brad's death serves as a reminder to me today, that sometimes events are so complicated that as a child we don't understand why things happen or what impact they may have.

"Brad doesn't go to pre-school anymore, he has gone to Heaven."

This was my mother's attempt to explain such a difficult concept to a five year old girl, who simply couldn't seek out her best friend on the playground earlier that day. There were no secret jokes, no language, no snacks, and no block tower. Looking back on that day, I realize my childhood world of sheltered playtime and pretend could only last so long before some event would become real enough to make that blur come into focus.

My mom believes that it is better he died when i was five. She thinks there is less hurt, because there was less to be hurt about. I'd known him for two years. That was all. Maybe she's right and maybe she's wrong. I can't help wondering if we'd made it through more of life's journey, would I have hurt more to lose someone so abruptly? Or would I have had the chance to grieve more fully, the way that an adult friend should be able? If we'd grown up together, shared more memories, developed our connection more deeply, would I have hurt more at his death? I can't answer that last question for myself. I can't answer it for others either. I can only say, hearing that song, caused me to remember this event and muss on its potential impact.

You don't always know what you had, until it is taken from you. The flip side is that sometimes you don't appreciate the especially great people and rare things you experience. Upon remembering, you tuly see that Paradise is not as much of an illusion or make-believe as it first appears to be. Brad and I shared something, no matter how short it was, I can look back and not simply think, "Gee, I didn't know what I had," because I do. I am grateful for it. I am grateful for the acknowledgement I gain in noticing some of the effects his death has had on my own life.