Difference between revisions of "Essay:Untitled (EB Saldana)"

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Nothing can stay around forever. Even now, I can see that things are changing- minor ones, it happens every year, yes, this is true. But this time is different.<br>
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<center>My Friends’ Faces<br><br>
The leaves are quietly beginning to fall. Nothing extreme, that will come later.<br>
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By EB Saldaña</center>
The rotting, sickening apples litter the ground. I hate picking them up. I always end up like them- smelling awful.<br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Look at the faces of the people around you. Watch their expressions, the motion behind their eyes and mouths. I crouch in my corner and observe the faces of my classmates; John doesn’t know that his jaw juts out when he writes; Michelle doesn’t notice her hair in her face like a waterfall. They are all clearly oblivious to my gaze.  
The temperatures are slowly, subtly beginning to drop.<br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;I love this summer class, this summer program. I’m at an academic camp called CTY in a writing class, and after about a week here, I’ve fallen in love with these faces. Some are familiar some are foreign, and my head says, “Memorize them!” We write about our experiences in class, and surprises spill from the mouths of these faces. Already, we’re close, but I crave knowing more about them. Why? Because I know that I will never see some of them again. Trains and planes and cars will separate us, and I want the ability to remember every detail about them. That way, I can re-live the glorious days of making faces at Daniel during study hall, or watching Jeremy do his ‘backwards sailor’ moonwalk move. I want to remember my time here, and the details lie with my friends’ faces.
Summer is over, my last year at my middle school begins. I'm one of the 'big kids' now. It's amazing the change in how younger ones look at me, how they seem so awed of the giants that roam the hallways. Or rather, that's how it is for the other kids, my childhood friends. For me, it's a bit different.<br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;I will never see some of these faces again. Some of them will never re-enter my life. I already met someone like that, someone who will never again cross my path. I met this person two years ago. His name was Philip Gunn.
The end of summer, for me, means the end of something a whole lot bigger than perhaps, the view of other kids. It's the end of a magical time in which I am truly alive. I sat in near silence today (The never-ending sound of cartoons from the blaring television never ceases to amaze me.), and pondered this summer and all the things that happened, mostly towards the end.<br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;I met Philip Gunn at Talent Show tryouts at CTY Lancaster, session two, 2005. Like an old school hip-hop group, I was in a funk, due to some unforeseen drama; the usually chipper EB felt low the day she met Phil. In any case, I went to the tryouts and sang my a capella number. I sang distractedly, still in awe of Phil’s earlier recitation of Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Conqueror Worm.” His voice glided over the words in crescendos and decrescendos, rising and falling like the hills of Lancaster County. We had free time after we tried out, so Phil tried to get me to play cards.
I spent most of my summer looking forward to-okay, it was more like being obsessed with- CTY, my 'nerd camp', my summer love, my home. I could truly be myself if I wanted to- people there would love me, regardless of any changes I might've gone through. The feeling of being loved, of being accepted, of so many people gathered into one place and getting along and just…being together is so amazing, so wonderful, you have to experience it to believe it.<br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Hi, I’m Phil. Would you like to play cards?” he asked me, charming and innocent.
CTY is love. No one cared if Beans decided to dye her hair into a rainbow of colors- in fact, she received many compliments for it. No one cared that Jeff was forced to walk around in a skirt for a shirt- in fact, he received many compliments for it. Everyone is so open and loving, no matter who it is, everyone is swept away by the feeling of being loved and accepted and themselves entirely; we are more than a assembly of 'smart kids', or 'nerds', or a community, or perhaps more accurately, eccentrics gathered together. An unbreakable bond is formed between us all, and though we may lose touch, these people are in our memories forever.<br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“No, that’s alright. I don’t know how to play ERS,” I said.
We are a family. We have our own culture, much of which involves our widespread taste in music, dancing, art, diction, interests, and basically anything that defines who we are. This culture we create is a mix of everything. We enjoy standing out and being accepted for it at CTY, whereas at home, we are singled out as 'the Weird Kid'.<br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Oh, we can teach you!” he said.
Perhaps one of the defining moments of CTY is the climax, the last day. This last day, a group of devoted CTYers gather together and proudly reflect upon their experiences here, drink to love, life, and being Forever Young. This is the Passionfruit, appropriately named- fruit juice is drunk, and the stories woven and told to the other members of our 'family' are indeed, filled with passion. Later, sobbing, we leave CTY- the end of our comforting world for a year, until the glorious day (and glorious it is indeed!) we can return to our friends, our classes, the exquisite days of our lives in which we truly come to life.<br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“No, I really don’t want to. Thanks, though,” I replied, a little sadly.
Unfortunately, all things come to an end. There are those who are part of this family who can never return. Those who remain lament their loss, and those who leave are missed sorely. Age and time catch up to us, and I shiver to think of the day I have lost my opportunity to come back to camp. These are sometimes the Nomores, other times, the Nevermores, and in all times, Forevermores. Their lives go on, and they live their lives as the wonderful people we knew and loved at camp.
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;After several more fruitless attempts, he settled down with the other girl in our group, and they talked and played cards. I was touched by his determination to get me to talk, to get me to play cards, to get me to be social. I liked Phil already - he was kind and outgoing, and of course, gifted with words. I was eager to see him perform in the Talent Show. Plus, finding a friendly face gave me hope that the rest of the session would improve.
Approximately four weeks ago, an unknowing Nevermore, a 14-year-old Squirell, stood at Passionfruit and proclaimed his undying love for CTY. He received much applause; perhaps he was not as well known as some of the people at camp, but was well-liked because of his amazing poetry recitation, and also for his general kindness to any and all people who he met.<br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Normally, finding someone twice in a crowd would be difficult. However, because we were at CTY, Phil and I met again, in an activity whimsically called “Dance Party.” It was what it sounded like - dancing for an hour in Marshall-Buchanan lounge to rowdy techno music. When we finally got tired of “Dragostea din Tei”, we relaxed on the floor and sang Disney songs.
His name was Phillip Gunn.<br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Our activity consisted of some wild girls and several gutsy boys, which included Phil. I waved hello to him when he walked in, and we talked a little and danced in the same general area. He struck me as slightly hilarious. He seemed clumsy and uncoordinated, but happy with his hour of disco and Disney. I also remember internally laughing at his sandals. They, too, were awkward on his feet. Sweaty and grinning and slowly becoming friends, we laughed and shook hands after our hour of dancing and headed out for our other activities.
I met Phil at Talent Show tryouts- he recited Edgar Allen Poe's "The Conqueror Worm". I was singing. Phil made it- I didn't. Although I was feeling very introverted that day, Phil was very kind and invited me to play cards. This was normal behavior, and while I turned him down, he was very nice to me. His Talent Show poetry was quite wonderful- he was a great speaker and put a lot of emotion into his recitation. Phil and I met up several times during the rest of the session, and while we weren't the best of friends, he is not quite the kind of person one easily forgets. After Passionfruit on our last day, he signed my yearbook, gave me a huge hug, and cheerfully told me that he couldn't wait to see me next year.<br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Phil and I ran into each other several times during the rest of the session. We were more than acquaintances, but not best friends. However, I knew him well enough to seek hugs after the Talent Show, when his performance demanded a standing ovation. I also sought him out for a personal request; a signature in my CTY yearbook.
Little did I know, that was the last time I would ever, and will ever, see Phil again.
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;After spending three hours in the morning on the last day, toasting our joys and bemoaning our sorrows, we gulped down swigs of fruit juice at our “Passionfruit” ceremony. Class time was drawing closer as I approached Phil with my yearbook and a spare bottle of Peach-Mango Fuze.
About two weeks after our goodbye, I got an instant message from my friend, Trevor. Trevor claimed that Phil was dead. I yelled at Trevor, and told him to stop kidding around. I signed off for awhile and became very nervous about not knowing for sure. In retrospect, I clearly recall a jolt of fear as Trevor told me what had happened- Phil had died on the operating table during heart surgery. I asked him for proof, and he couldn't give it. Trevor gave me Phil's number, and my heart pounding, I dialed it. A woman picked up, and I asked for Phil. She confirmed what I'd heard from Trevor- Phil hadn't survived his surgery. My voice cracked as I talked to her; tears began streaming down my face, uncontrollably. I got off the phone as quickly as I could, sat down at the computer, told all my friends about Phil, then signed off. Oh, the thoughts running through my mind-<br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Hey Phil! It’s our last day, huh? Do you want to sign my yearbook?” I blurted.
He's not coming back. I'll never see him again. I'll never see him again. It's not possible- he HAS to be. "I can't wait to see you next year." "…The Conqueror Worm." He's not coming back…<br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Sure!” he exclaimed. I bent over for him to write on my back, simultaneously placing my bottle on the grass. I was sweaty and sticky, and the 9AM sun did nothing to improve my bodily conditions. I sincerely regretted my wardrobe choice for the day- my CTY shirt made into a skirt, worn over pants.
Tears were running down my face, I was sobbing and coughing and shaking with sadness. I didn't blame God for his death, or the doctors, or anyone. It just made me a bit dizzy. I sat outside. I cried some more. I went upstairs and talked to my mom. Then sank down to the floor of my room and cried some more. I went to bed and cried a bit more. I calmed down, and was finally able to center my thoughts. I talked to him. I talked to the heavens, with my face turned upward, where I knew he was watching me, nodding and smiling. He couldn't have responded, but I know he could hear me.<br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;I felt the pressure of a pen on my back, and the scratching of ink to paper. I waited patiently while he wrote.
That was about two weeks ago. Since then, I believe I spent about nights where I HAVEN'T cried. It messed me up. SO badly. But you know, I do accept it. I'm not denying that it happened. It did. I can't change it. But I can learn from it.<br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;I don’t even remember my thoughts at this point. What I am able to remember are seemingly insignificant details, like the grazing of his hand against the page and glaring morning sun. I remember sobs from the Electric Tree with the electrical outlet, where the students who weren’t returning stood weeping. I remember the after-tastes of artificial sweetener and peaches settling themselves comfortably on my tongue. I’m surprised I still remember the details after almost two years. I think that my senses were so alert, awake and buzzing for those couple seconds because I’ve rewound and played them over and over again in my mind. Or maybe I realized, even then, that those final few moments, with Phil writing n my back and the sun beating down all around us, would be so important to me later.  
I don't want to not get to know a person before I lose them. I am grateful for the time I spent with Phil ('phil' is the Greek base word for 'love'; did you know what?). I wish I had gotten to know him better, though.<br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Okay, all done,” he said.
Things change. This is fact, and while it seems the majority is for the worse, some is for the better. Phil dying is a change. Phil dying was not for the better. My acceptance of Phil dying, and learning from it, though, has put me through a series of changes in the past two weeks, in which I ended up changing, in my opinion, for the better. I still cry for him. It still bothers me.
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;I looked up at his face, the wide eyes and squirrel-like structure I had become so fond of staring right back at me. He was smiling. Breaking away from his grin, I tried to read the nonsense he had written in my yearbook. It took quite some time to translate, and the message struck me as abnormal. I found it odd that a fourteen-year-old boy would wish me “the best of luck and health in all my endeavors.” I shrugged it off, attributing the comment to the eccentricity of CTY.
Time distorts things, and slows down the moments you want to pass by quickly, and quickens the moments you want to savor. Time distorts love and truth and, in time, us. Time distorts love in that, when we love someone, time makes a short time with them seem longer, and a long time with them wonderful. Time distorts truth, in that, over time, my experience with Phil dying won’t bother me as much anymore. All I have left of him is fond memories, a scribbled note in my yearbook, and a new perspective on the world around.<br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Thanks so much, Phil,I mumbled gratefully.
Time distorts us. I can't tell you how- sometimes we need to figure things out ourselves.
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Anytime. I can’t wait to see you next year!” he grinned in response. I opened my arms for a hug, and he walked right in.
In all honesty, I have found that happiness is clinging to your friends and pulling yourself away. Happiness is being sad sometimes. I want to live life.<br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“We’d better get to class,I told him.
I'm not quite sure what all this means. But I know that, as the leaves fall and it gets cooler and my summer ends, things change. Huge changes and small changes; huge decisions and small decisions; huge feelings and small feelings; whatever comes my way, I intend to take it, to live it, and though I may want to, I won't try to change it.
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;We both turned and began walking toward our respective buildings, he to Stager and I to Keiper. Something compelled me to turn around for one last look. He caught me looking at him and kept the smile on his face. I knew that I would miss seeing him walking under the arches near the dining hall, or hanging out with friends on the Quad, and for maybe the thousandth time that day, I felt genuinely sad.
<br><br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;We had our own Passionfruit toasts in class that morning before heading out for a game of Balderdash. Phil and I didn’t cross paths again, so I packed my bags and said my goodbyes, then left Lancaster.  
Written by EB Saldana<br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Of course I was sad without CTY. I missed my friends and class and I definitely wanted to wallow in my CTY –withdrawal. Unfortunately, I had two weeks before the first day of school, and an infinite to-do list. Although I was fantastically busy, I still made time to get online and talk to my friends. The evening before school began, I got an instant message from my friend, Trevor.
September 3, 2005<br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Do you remember Phil Gunn?
LAN05.2-ETYM<br>
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Phil? Of course. He was a really cool guy.
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“He’s dead.
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Those two words changed everything.
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Trevor, that’s not funny. You shouldn’t joke about things like that,I reprimanded.
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“I’m not joking,” came the response.
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<br>“Trevor, stop.”
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<br>“I’m not joking!”
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;We debated online awhile. Trevor had managed to really unhinge me, and I was on the verge of a complete freak-out. Finally, I asked him for Phil’s home phone number, which he gave me. I wanted to prove to myself and Trevor that Phil was still alive and kicking. I just wasn’t sure what to say to him when he got on the phone.  
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Heart racing, I dialed the number. A woman answered.
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Hello?”
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Hi, is um…Phil there?”
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Um, may I ask who’s calling, please?”
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Oh, she just wanted a name. Well, that was a positive sign.  
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Um, it’s EB, a friend from camp?” I phrased it like a question, because I still wasn’t sure what to believe.
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Oh, EB! Phil used to talk about you all the time!”
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;…Excuse me? I tried to sound happy about this terrorizing statement.
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Oh, wow! That’s so nice! I didn’t expect him to remember me.”
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“I’m so sorry to tell you this,” her voice confirmed, “but Phil didn’t survive his surgery.”
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And there was the answer. I somehow managed to get off the phone in one piece, only to crumble into a million when I hit the floor. Questions exploded like fireworks in my head. I literally collapsed.
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;What happened? Why Phil? I didn’t even know he was having surgery! Why? When? How? I didn’t even know him that well, why am I so upset?
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;I must have lost a pint of saltwater that day. My mom held me and did her best to comfort me, but there was little she could do. There one thing that really bothered me as I lay in bed that night, awake with aching red eyes, was that it must be so much worse for the people who were actually close to Phil. I barely knew him and his death made my heart drop into my stomach and my stomach leap to my mouth.
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Phil? I know you’re there. Maybe it’s crazy that I’m talking to empty air, but that’s just how I am.” It felt weird, sending my voice into the dark void of my bedroom, but I needed a way to talk to him, so why not?
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“I’m sorry I didn’t get to know you well. Now I’ll never get the chance,” I wept. I told Phil many other things that night, and I felt closer to him then than I did when he was alive.
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      <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And that’s the truth. Knowing Phil better might have made it easier to deal with his death, because at least then I would have known what had been taken out of my life. <br/>
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But now, my remnants of Phil are a few scattered memories, an unreadable note in my yearbook, and some fuzzy faded photographs on some CTY sites. The memories and the pictures, battered though they may be, still capture his face. He might be smiling or laughing or crying, or any of a thousand expressions, life shining through.
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;I never saw his face in all his expressions, because I didn’t know him well enough or spend enough time with him. Now I never will. His face haunts a few special places, but mostly, he’s slowly making his way out of my life.
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<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The way Phil drifted into my life and then exited so suddenly was like the opening and closing an eye, or the soft breath in and out through a nostril. Faces change and disappear, and the ones with red cheeks and life coursing through them are there for you to learn, to love, to know. A glance at a face won’t enable us to remember details- you have to take the time to memorize and learn. That way, you’ll remember them, and not regret the inability to picture a face in a thousand expressions. Faces are here to be memorized- you are here to learn them.
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[[Category:Essays]]

Latest revision as of 13:25, 30 July 2015

My Friends’ Faces

By EB Saldaña


     Look at the faces of the people around you. Watch their expressions, the motion behind their eyes and mouths. I crouch in my corner and observe the faces of my classmates; John doesn’t know that his jaw juts out when he writes; Michelle doesn’t notice her hair in her face like a waterfall. They are all clearly oblivious to my gaze.
     I love this summer class, this summer program. I’m at an academic camp called CTY in a writing class, and after about a week here, I’ve fallen in love with these faces. Some are familiar some are foreign, and my head says, “Memorize them!” We write about our experiences in class, and surprises spill from the mouths of these faces. Already, we’re close, but I crave knowing more about them. Why? Because I know that I will never see some of them again. Trains and planes and cars will separate us, and I want the ability to remember every detail about them. That way, I can re-live the glorious days of making faces at Daniel during study hall, or watching Jeremy do his ‘backwards sailor’ moonwalk move. I want to remember my time here, and the details lie with my friends’ faces.
     I will never see some of these faces again. Some of them will never re-enter my life. I already met someone like that, someone who will never again cross my path. I met this person two years ago. His name was Philip Gunn.
     I met Philip Gunn at Talent Show tryouts at CTY Lancaster, session two, 2005. Like an old school hip-hop group, I was in a funk, due to some unforeseen drama; the usually chipper EB felt low the day she met Phil. In any case, I went to the tryouts and sang my a capella number. I sang distractedly, still in awe of Phil’s earlier recitation of Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Conqueror Worm.” His voice glided over the words in crescendos and decrescendos, rising and falling like the hills of Lancaster County. We had free time after we tried out, so Phil tried to get me to play cards.
     “Hi, I’m Phil. Would you like to play cards?” he asked me, charming and innocent.
     “No, that’s alright. I don’t know how to play ERS,” I said.
     “Oh, we can teach you!” he said.
     “No, I really don’t want to. Thanks, though,” I replied, a little sadly.
     After several more fruitless attempts, he settled down with the other girl in our group, and they talked and played cards. I was touched by his determination to get me to talk, to get me to play cards, to get me to be social. I liked Phil already - he was kind and outgoing, and of course, gifted with words. I was eager to see him perform in the Talent Show. Plus, finding a friendly face gave me hope that the rest of the session would improve.
     Normally, finding someone twice in a crowd would be difficult. However, because we were at CTY, Phil and I met again, in an activity whimsically called “Dance Party.” It was what it sounded like - dancing for an hour in Marshall-Buchanan lounge to rowdy techno music. When we finally got tired of “Dragostea din Tei”, we relaxed on the floor and sang Disney songs.
     Our activity consisted of some wild girls and several gutsy boys, which included Phil. I waved hello to him when he walked in, and we talked a little and danced in the same general area. He struck me as slightly hilarious. He seemed clumsy and uncoordinated, but happy with his hour of disco and Disney. I also remember internally laughing at his sandals. They, too, were awkward on his feet. Sweaty and grinning and slowly becoming friends, we laughed and shook hands after our hour of dancing and headed out for our other activities.
     Phil and I ran into each other several times during the rest of the session. We were more than acquaintances, but not best friends. However, I knew him well enough to seek hugs after the Talent Show, when his performance demanded a standing ovation. I also sought him out for a personal request; a signature in my CTY yearbook.
     After spending three hours in the morning on the last day, toasting our joys and bemoaning our sorrows, we gulped down swigs of fruit juice at our “Passionfruit” ceremony. Class time was drawing closer as I approached Phil with my yearbook and a spare bottle of Peach-Mango Fuze.
     “Hey Phil! It’s our last day, huh? Do you want to sign my yearbook?” I blurted.
     “Sure!” he exclaimed. I bent over for him to write on my back, simultaneously placing my bottle on the grass. I was sweaty and sticky, and the 9AM sun did nothing to improve my bodily conditions. I sincerely regretted my wardrobe choice for the day- my CTY shirt made into a skirt, worn over pants.
     I felt the pressure of a pen on my back, and the scratching of ink to paper. I waited patiently while he wrote.
     I don’t even remember my thoughts at this point. What I am able to remember are seemingly insignificant details, like the grazing of his hand against the page and glaring morning sun. I remember sobs from the Electric Tree with the electrical outlet, where the students who weren’t returning stood weeping. I remember the after-tastes of artificial sweetener and peaches settling themselves comfortably on my tongue. I’m surprised I still remember the details after almost two years. I think that my senses were so alert, awake and buzzing for those couple seconds because I’ve rewound and played them over and over again in my mind. Or maybe I realized, even then, that those final few moments, with Phil writing n my back and the sun beating down all around us, would be so important to me later.
     “Okay, all done,” he said.
     I looked up at his face, the wide eyes and squirrel-like structure I had become so fond of staring right back at me. He was smiling. Breaking away from his grin, I tried to read the nonsense he had written in my yearbook. It took quite some time to translate, and the message struck me as abnormal. I found it odd that a fourteen-year-old boy would wish me “the best of luck and health in all my endeavors.” I shrugged it off, attributing the comment to the eccentricity of CTY.
     “Thanks so much, Phil,” I mumbled gratefully.
     “Anytime. I can’t wait to see you next year!” he grinned in response. I opened my arms for a hug, and he walked right in.
     “We’d better get to class,” I told him.
     We both turned and began walking toward our respective buildings, he to Stager and I to Keiper. Something compelled me to turn around for one last look. He caught me looking at him and kept the smile on his face. I knew that I would miss seeing him walking under the arches near the dining hall, or hanging out with friends on the Quad, and for maybe the thousandth time that day, I felt genuinely sad.
     We had our own Passionfruit toasts in class that morning before heading out for a game of Balderdash. Phil and I didn’t cross paths again, so I packed my bags and said my goodbyes, then left Lancaster.
     Of course I was sad without CTY. I missed my friends and class and I definitely wanted to wallow in my CTY –withdrawal. Unfortunately, I had two weeks before the first day of school, and an infinite to-do list. Although I was fantastically busy, I still made time to get online and talk to my friends. The evening before school began, I got an instant message from my friend, Trevor.
     “Do you remember Phil Gunn?”
     “Phil? Of course. He was a really cool guy.”
     “He’s dead.”
     Those two words changed everything.
     “Trevor, that’s not funny. You shouldn’t joke about things like that,” I reprimanded.
     “I’m not joking,” came the response.
“Trevor, stop.”
“I’m not joking!”
     We debated online awhile. Trevor had managed to really unhinge me, and I was on the verge of a complete freak-out. Finally, I asked him for Phil’s home phone number, which he gave me. I wanted to prove to myself and Trevor that Phil was still alive and kicking. I just wasn’t sure what to say to him when he got on the phone.
     Heart racing, I dialed the number. A woman answered.
     “Hello?”
     “Hi, is um…Phil there?”
     “Um, may I ask who’s calling, please?”
     Oh, she just wanted a name. Well, that was a positive sign.
     “Um, it’s EB, a friend from camp?” I phrased it like a question, because I still wasn’t sure what to believe.
     “Oh, EB! Phil used to talk about you all the time!”
     …Excuse me? I tried to sound happy about this terrorizing statement.
     “Oh, wow! That’s so nice! I didn’t expect him to remember me.”
     “I’m so sorry to tell you this,” her voice confirmed, “but Phil didn’t survive his surgery.”
     And there was the answer. I somehow managed to get off the phone in one piece, only to crumble into a million when I hit the floor. Questions exploded like fireworks in my head. I literally collapsed.
     What happened? Why Phil? I didn’t even know he was having surgery! Why? When? How? I didn’t even know him that well, why am I so upset?
     I must have lost a pint of saltwater that day. My mom held me and did her best to comfort me, but there was little she could do. There one thing that really bothered me as I lay in bed that night, awake with aching red eyes, was that it must be so much worse for the people who were actually close to Phil. I barely knew him and his death made my heart drop into my stomach and my stomach leap to my mouth.
     “Phil? I know you’re there. Maybe it’s crazy that I’m talking to empty air, but that’s just how I am.” It felt weird, sending my voice into the dark void of my bedroom, but I needed a way to talk to him, so why not?
     “I’m sorry I didn’t get to know you well. Now I’ll never get the chance,” I wept. I told Phil many other things that night, and I felt closer to him then than I did when he was alive.

      
     And that’s the truth. Knowing Phil better might have made it easier to deal with his death, because at least then I would have known what had been taken out of my life.

But now, my remnants of Phil are a few scattered memories, an unreadable note in my yearbook, and some fuzzy faded photographs on some CTY sites. The memories and the pictures, battered though they may be, still capture his face. He might be smiling or laughing or crying, or any of a thousand expressions, life shining through.
     I never saw his face in all his expressions, because I didn’t know him well enough or spend enough time with him. Now I never will. His face haunts a few special places, but mostly, he’s slowly making his way out of my life.
     The way Phil drifted into my life and then exited so suddenly was like the opening and closing an eye, or the soft breath in and out through a nostril. Faces change and disappear, and the ones with red cheeks and life coursing through them are there for you to learn, to love, to know. A glance at a face won’t enable us to remember details- you have to take the time to memorize and learn. That way, you’ll remember them, and not regret the inability to picture a face in a thousand expressions. Faces are here to be memorized- you are here to learn them.