For Dustin, Who Never Grew Old---Written on January 22, 2007

     For Dustin, Who Never Grew Old

January 22, 2007

    Last week during a Texas ice storm, I took a trip back home to say goodbye to my friend, whom the adults knew as Dustin Smothermon. But for us, he was and always will be Smooder. He was killed last Saturday on his way home from his job when his car was hit by another car. I know that the first responders did everything possible to try and save him, but they could not. Smooder died that night, and a piece of my childhood died along with him.

    The memories of my youth have weighed heavily on my mind in these recent days since his death. When I learned of the accident that took him away, my mind began to travel back in time and made memories that had carelessly been forgotten, somehow bright and vivid again. Like it happened yesterday, I could see Smooder, Marc, and Brandon outside of my bedroom window for a late-night visit with cigarettes and Boone's Farm in their hands. I could hear Smooder and my little brother conspiring to get us all money to pitch in for the keg at the party at the lake. I could see his face on the day of his 17th birthday when Kelley and I delivered an old recliner that we picked up off the side of the road to his doorstep with a balloon tied to it to his front door. He had the best smile. His blue eyes sparkled and made his laugh something that you never wanted to stop. 

    I thought about the old days of Ag class, where we hid in the gardens and smoked cigarettes and evaded Mr. Wisdom. I remembered our summers where we spent days upon days jumping off 2859 bridge from the section where someone had spray painted the words, "black snake" on the concrete. I recalled Smooder's surprise 20th birthday party at my new and shabby apartment, where the only furniture I owned was a 12-inch television and a Budweiser ice chest. We sat on the floor all night long drinking Zima, smoking Marlboro menthols, and laughing endlessly. That was the night that Marc drank so much and passed out on the floor and began whining the words, "trash can", which Smooder retrieved for him as he proceeded to lose his stomach. Marc did this every single time. Smooder was always ready.  I thought about the night that we were all at a house party and my parent's believed I was spending the night with Cara, but I was too afraid to go to sleep anywhere in the house except for the room where Cara and Smooder were sleeping. I never even took my Doc Martens off. I remembered that chilly night in November that a group of us decided that we would go for a skinny dip in Richland Chambers and Smooder refused to join in but offered to hold my clothes for me instead. There were so many football games, and school dances, and trips to Taco Bell. So many average days that in that moment, just became extraordinary days in my memory. 

    Back then, the thought of dying young seemed unrealistic and far-fetched. We had our whole lives ahead of us. And we could not wait to speed time up to where we could drive, or go to clubs, or buy cigarettes and beer from anyone besides the crazy man at the trading post. 

    Smooder's passing brought my own mortality to the forefront. I suddenly realized, after watching the first person from the Class of 2001 die, that any of us could be next.  And we too would be young forever, and those we left behind would think of all of the things that we never got the chance to do and everyone would be sad. And maybe this is the reason why I have never wasted my time on things such as raking leaves, or washing my car, or matching my socks. The things that really do not matter when it is all over with.

    I flipped through my old school yearbooks 3 nights ago. I needed to read words that Smooder had written on the covers, and touch something that he had touched. It made me miss him so much, and the time that we had together, and the kids that we had been. It occurred to me that maybe I did not hate high school as much as I had thought before, and maybe Smooder had a lot to do with that. I am so sorry that I will never hear him laugh again. I know that as the years go by, I may forget the sound of it. I am sorry for anyone who never got to have a piece of him, and who never heard his laugh at all. Smooder is the reason that I can no longer refer to myself as "old", because he is dead now and will always be only 23. And even when the day comes that I am old, I will remember that Smooder left without so many things being said or done. When anybody remembers him, he will always be that young kid with the sparkly eyes and amazing smile who never grew old.

    One of the hardest things about the saying, "life goes on" is that it is entirely true. But it goes on in a different way, because something is missing. The world is suddently different and will never go back to the way that it was when Smooder was here. 

    If there really is a heaven and I go there, I hope to see him again.  I hope we find ourselves to be teenagers again, sneaking out of our parent's houses with no cares in the world. Wherever he is now, I hope that he is in absolute peace. And I hope that I can find it for myself as well.