I can’t remember when I first met you. I’m pretty sure we went to preschool together. I have a picture of all of us from back then lying around my house somewhere. I should dig it out and check. Can you believe we were ever that young? Looking back on it from this distance it might as well have been from another lifetime.

I visited your house at least once (that I can remember) when we were kids. It was right on the edge of town. Were you still living there or have you moved since then?

We were never close friends. It’s not that I regret not getting to know you better. That’s just how it all worked out. We ran with different crowds. But it was a small town and a small school, so we always knew each other. Preschool to elementary to middle school to high school, we were in the same class--we always knew each other.

In middle school you dated a girl that I have since come to know quite well. For two years you two were going out. For a time when the average relationship lasted a week two years is impressive. One of the quintessential class couples of the time, as I recall. I know it ended shortly before the end of eighth grade. I won’t ask why. It’s not any of my business to know. She still thinks fondly of you. Well, a lot of us do.

You and I took Accounting I together in high school our junior year. Or maybe I should say that I took Accounting I--you were in Accounting II but were lumped into our class. You never spent much time on class work. You were always talking cars with the other gear heads. Member of the Future Business Leaders of America, weren’t you? You dressed up for FBLA events and basketball games. You looked good in a collared shirt and tie. Gave you a sharp, clean-cut look.

I came to a few of your basketball games. I wasn’t much of a school function type of kid, but when I was out with friends we’d often go to high school basketball games. You played point guard, handled the ball well, good jump shooter. But you were too brash, had a habit of racking up fouls as soon as the coach put you in. The best part was seeing the look on your face whenever the referee blew the whistle on you. You always had a smile on your face that said, “What? Who--me? You’ve got to be joking. I never touched the guy!” A wonderfully bombastic smile. The kind politicians and con artists have. A genuinely friendly smile.

Whenever we would greet each other we’d shake hands for a good minute or so, vigorously, like we would tear one another’s hand off if we weren’t in such a good mood. You always had that smile on your face when we did that. I remember because it was horribly contagious and always got me smiling, too. If the Black Death had been as infectious as your smile humanity would have died out centuries ago.

For the first half of our senior year you sat behind me in sociology. Whenever one of us was getting in trouble the other would jump in to cover. One time the teacher called on you to ask you something and you were fast asleep (we both slept a lot in sociology). “Is he sleeping?” the teacher asked.

I turned around to wake you up. You mumbled something incoherently about not wanting to be in that class that day, so I turned back to the teacher and said, “He’s not available at the moment--can I take a message?” I wish we had more of the same classes. We worked well together.

It was when we were in sociology that you gave me the idea for one of my photo essays. We were talking about all the churches and gas stations along Main Street, and how that seemed to be the only thing our town had in abundance. You said, “It’s like all we’ve got is God and gas stations.”

I thought to myself, “That’s brilliant! God and Gas Stations--what a perfect title!” I turned to you right then and there and told you how it was the perfect title for a photo essay. My ex-girlfriend and I took the photos for it the summer after we graduated high school. I still think about you whenever I look at them.

I remember when I first met your younger sister. She played volleyball and I managed the girl’s volleyball team. Never knew you had a younger sister until she became a freshman. I found her to be a charming young lady. You two were different in a lot of ways, but I always saw something of you in her. Maybe it was that smile.

I can’t claim to have known you all that well. Like I said, we ran with different crowds. For all the trouble you had a habit of getting into, you were a well-mannered guy with a good sense of humor.

Do you know what’s bothering me right now? Writing all of this in the past tense.

You cannot imagine how shocked I was when I heard about the accident. A friend of mine e-mailed me the link to a news article that detailed the whole thing. I watched a video they posted online about it. I couldn’t believe it was you. You see those kinds of reports on the local news all the time, but it’s always someone else they’re talking about. It’s someone else’s face in an old yearbook that they’re showing a close-up of.

But this time it was you.

I don’t understand. Why were you driving so fast? Were you trying to get your friends home in time to meet their curfew? I’m sure their parents would’ve understood if they got back a little later than usual. You were kids out enjoying yourselves and you lost track of time. Honest mistake. It happens. I’m sure they would’ve forgiven you. Why couldn’t you have slowed down a little?

Never mind. There’s no point in asking you now. I’m just upset, that’s all.

When they held the candlelight vigil for all of you I heard half the town turned out for the occasion. There were so many people they had to close down the road. I wish I could have been there. I’ve been praying for you. You never struck me as a religious man, but who the hell is at eighteen? Many theologians believe God has a sense of humor, in which case I’m sure you two are getting along well.

Have you checked your Facebook recently? You wouldn’t believe the number of people that have said goodbye to you on there. Even now we’re desperately trying to find a way to reach you, to feel connected to you somehow.

I think it’s a cruel irony that they’re going to bury you on what would have been your nineteenth birthday. They say, “Only the best die young,” but you could have died at forty and I would have still considered that “young.”

I’m a strong believer in the concept of fate, but I don’t know what to make of this. What was the point? What purpose did this serve?

Yeah, yeah, I know. No real point in asking that either.

The next time I’m home I’ll be sure to visit you. At first I was thinking I’d bring you flowers, but that’s kind of cliche and I don’t think you're much of a flower person anyway. I’ll sit down next to you, and we’ll talk. It’s been a while since we last talked. I don’t know what we’ll talk about, but we’ll think of something. I’ll try not to cry, but I make no promises. I’ll bring some friends with me. We all miss you an awful lot. It’ll be nice to see you again, even if it’s not quite in the manner that I expected to see you.

But then I’m sure you know better than anyone at this point that life doesn’t always turn out how you expect it to.

And for that matter, neither does death.

This piece is dedicated, with great affection, to a former classmate of mine named Sean Landry. He was killed in a car accident with three of his friends--Myles Gosselin, Alyssa Roy, and Jordan Gagnon--on August 23, 2007, six days before his nineteenth birthday. I told him (posthumously) that I’d write something that people could remember him by, so I hope he likes it (although it might be a while before I get the chance to ask him myself). Godspeed, Sean. May you go with the grace of God's protection, and may your memory be eternal.