Remembering Rory

We met right after I had turned eighteen; a senior in high school.  You were six years older than me, almost to the day.  Your roommates (one a high school teacher) found our friendship odd, but you didn't let that phase you.  I thought you were one of the kindest, most thoughtful, genuine people I had ever met.  You empathized with me and I found myself drawn to your charm and insatiable love for music and movies.  We would talk until the wee hours of the morning.  We shared a love of sweet things and cold cereal.  You challenged me to be a better person.  You helped me to begin believing in myself; in my possibilities.  I loved your smile, your sense of humor, your honesty.  I had thought once that I would be good at physical comedy, but you told me, no, not really.  I appreciated that about you.  The way you could be honest and blunt, but not hurt my {ever} sensitive feelings.  I loved your openness, your quest for truth and justice.  You wanted a little girl of your own some day.  You would have been a wonderful father.  You loved the show Gilmore Girls.  To this day I think of you every time I see/hear the name.  I think, for awhile anyway, that you had a crush on me.  It scared me.  I loved you as a friend, but I didn't know how to tell you that.  And truthfully, my heart already belonged to another.  But I think you knew that.  I used to call you a "drama queen" and you would just laugh.  It was our inside joke.  I remember the last time I saw you.  It's burned into my memory.  If only I had known that would be the last time.  Maybe things would have turned out differently.  Then again, maybe not.   

It has been four years since your passing.  Your funeral was proof of how loved you were.  Of how much you are missed.  It was the first time I had heard your name and Bipolar disorder mentioned in the same sentence.  Of your old roommates saying you always knew this is how your life would end.  Afterward Doug and I had a conversation about suicide and heaven.  I think I will see you there one day.  And when it's my time you will be there with open arms, welcoming me.

I miss you.  I think of you often.  I wish you could see how well my story has turned out.  And that we could say the same for you.  I wish that you could have met my little girl.  Later, afterward, I realized she was born on the third anniversary of your death.  That is how life goes, right?  There are endings and beginnings.  I know where you are now there is no more tears, no more pain.  You are well and happy.  You would have been 35 today.

Happy birthday, Rory.

Love,
Missy