John

Those familiar with me and especially those who know me have observed my very serious appreciation for music. It is so deeply tethered to memories and events in my life that I have long assumed that most are not aware of just how sensitive a topic it is for me. Just as smell can be closely tied to memories for people, sound has always profoundly affected me. Music, in specific.

And I can remember when I first heard specific songs and albums. These memories are attached to places, people, items, or other random things like a rolled down window of a highway bound car in July, a menthol cigarette, the smell of popcorn, the heat of an oven, or even other sounds. It's an association I inadvertantly learned to make from a young age, when I first learned to deal with crises. Even now well into my adult years this involuntary process continues, well without my knowledge or consent.

These associations are always attached to a trigger. As you may imagine, these triggers are closely related to the memories they were attached to - all of which include music. Today I was on my way back from the car wash, having just applied the vacuum to my car. I was alone, but with coffee and music. Near home I found myself stopped at a major light in town and without warning spotted John.

One of my first memories of moving to Moses Lake was the first home my family had, or rented. That summer, having known no one and alone in the backyard I spotted a young man my age across the fence named Jacob - jumping on a trampoline. He would soon become the first person I met and my first friend in Moses, not long after which I met his father, John.

And it was in his home that I heard many new sounds - new bands, well they may not have been new, but they were new to me. And when I saw John today I thought of many things. I remembered him waking up early and walking barefoot out to the living room where I was always sleeping on the couch. He would open the front door (regardless of time of year), turn on The Today Show but leave the volume down, put The Charlie Daniels band in the stereo and crank it up. Many mornings I woke up to "The Devil Went Down To Georgia". Many nights I spent in their home.

And during that brief light I had lost count of how many bags of popcorn we ate, or diet Cokes we drank, how many evenings we wasted on video games or how many times we listened to Led Zeppelin. Jacob and I would wander the neighborhood we met in for no reason other than to burn our free time. That was 23 years ago.

We would go on with our lives and lose touch, but I'd still see John here and there. He worked at the college where I would later decide to attend. I would stop and talk with him. He would still say that I was ugly, just as he always did. That was his affection, and I appreciated that.

While waiting for the light to turn green I watched a man in a funny beanie push John in his wheelchair up and down the sidewalk, collecting donations for underpriveleged children. It was the first day in my life ever seeing him in a wheelchair. So much went through my head watching his face, so many sounds, so many memories. I went straight home to grab my camera, turned around and went right back to that intersection.

As soon as I was within eye shot of him it was like it always was, only no ugly talk or hand shake - this time it was big hug. You can imagine my delight when he told me that Jacob was mere feet away, as was Jacob's son who last I saw was no taller than my waist. He now looked me in the eyes.

The meeting was brief, our talk was limited. John was on his way out of town. His hands shook while we briefly caught up, from the cold. Last I saw him he had both his legs. Today, he had only one. The motorcycle accident took the other. Again, I was reminded how life is so immensely delicate and unpredictable - a lesson I would learn time and time again in hospice.

I don't know when I'll see John or Jacob again, but I look forward to it. It is a safe assumption of mine that much occurs within the minds of others despite our assessment of it. Sitting at that light I probably appeared blank, but my mind couldn't have been more occupied. After they left I walked back to the tent where santa was taking photos with kids and talked with a few other gentleman there who told me more about the gift drive, thanked them for their time there, and left. To many the red light was likely a nuisance. To me, it couldn't have been long enough.

Such ironies are rich in life, and I don't want to miss any of them.