Every year it creeps up on me. In late February I start feeling uneasy, not myself. I wonder if I’m coming down with something. Why can’t I sleep? It’ll probably pass, I tell myself. But anniversaries are hidden things that can seep in and seize you unaware. The light bulb goes on when my son Ben calls from Boston or D.C. or Texas or wherever he’s gotten off to and says, “Tomorrow is the day that Lauren died.” Of course.
The first time I met Lauren was in front of the library. Accustomed to awkward middle-schoolers with little to say, I was captivated by this short confident exuberant 12 year old who looked me straight in the eye, stepped forward and stuck her hand out for a shake. Introducing us was my son, also 12, and, I think, also captivated by this new friend.
I wish I could remember the next time I saw her and the next, but I do know that she became a loyal pal of my son and a participant in many of the school and social gatherings that swept the kids along from middle school into high school. We got acquainted with her parents, and our family conversation included which part Lauren got in the upcoming play or her take on Student Council. Lauren was a big presence in a small package. She was also complete and fully-realized, so herself at an age when most of her peers were riddled with self-doubt and angst. Lauren didn’t have time for any of that.
It was a normal night at our house in late winter of Ben’s freshman year. Homework was done and he was in bed early because he was coming down with something. My friend Peg called late, too late for a regular call. I asked her to repeat what she said three times because I couldn’t take it in. I didn’t want to take it in. Lauren had been in the family car, her brother driving her to play practice. He made a teenage mistake and tried to make it around the crossing gates and they were hit. Lauren was dead and he was injured. Peg said her husband had passed by the tracks soon after the accident and came home shaken, hoping no one had been in that car when it was hit. When they later got a call from a friend and learned that it was Lauren, Peg called me. She knew what good friends my son and Lauren were and wanted to save him from walking into school the next morning to face this news.
The early loss of my father had marked my life and I had so hoped my children could escape grief’s reach. As I climbed the stairs that night to wake Ben and break his life in two, I cursed the gods all over again. Of all people, why Lauren, and by extension why Ben?
Every year, once Ben calls, I go to the florist and pick out the one most vivid bloom, this year a salmon-colored rose. While the clerk adds greens and wraps it in cellophane, I surprise myself by blinking back tears. It’s been years since I did that. Lauren should be thirty this year and full of the challenge of a whole new stage of life. Like memory, grief doesn’t go away. It just lies in wait for a moment like this.
All winter they pile snow in the parking lot at the town pool. By the time March 2 comes around there is a mountain of it. I park there and walk across the street to the tree, the one where Lauren’s car came to rest. There is a permanent bouquet secured there of pretty spring flowers. All year, when I drive by I check to be sure it is still there. In the early days there were piles of flowers, which would disappear, no doubt cleared out by some civil authority, to gradually build back up soon after. Now when I see the occasional addition I smile, reminded that others remember too and feel moved to act.
I bend down to place the flower at the base of the tree and whisper to Lauren that we miss her and that Ben is fine and happy. I figure she would like to know that about her old friend. I linger a moment before I climb back over the snow bank and return to the car. My mood starts to lighten even as I think of her family who has found a way to live on, and the others who love and remember her too today. The year turns soon after, spring comes, renewing energy and hope. But it doesn’t come until we’ve remembered Lauren.
First, I loved Lauren because she loved my son. Then, as I got to know her, for being so vividly herself. And for making everyone she met feel included and important. And for making her 14 years of life just as full and complete as much longer ones. And now I love her for her legacy – to be smart and provocative and unafraid – that makes me want to be more like her every day, and to tell her story to you.
CBH 03/10
The first time I met Lauren was in front of the library. Accustomed to awkward middle-schoolers with little to say, I was captivated by this short confident exuberant 12 year old who looked me straight in the eye, stepped forward and stuck her hand out for a shake. Introducing us was my son, also 12, and, I think, also captivated by this new friend.
I wish I could remember the next time I saw her and the next, but I do know that she became a loyal pal of my son and a participant in many of the school and social gatherings that swept the kids along from middle school into high school. We got acquainted with her parents, and our family conversation included which part Lauren got in the upcoming play or her take on Student Council. Lauren was a big presence in a small package. She was also complete and fully-realized, so herself at an age when most of her peers were riddled with self-doubt and angst. Lauren didn’t have time for any of that.
It was a normal night at our house in late winter of Ben’s freshman year. Homework was done and he was in bed early because he was coming down with something. My friend Peg called late, too late for a regular call. I asked her to repeat what she said three times because I couldn’t take it in. I didn’t want to take it in. Lauren had been in the family car, her brother driving her to play practice. He made a teenage mistake and tried to make it around the crossing gates and they were hit. Lauren was dead and he was injured. Peg said her husband had passed by the tracks soon after the accident and came home shaken, hoping no one had been in that car when it was hit. When they later got a call from a friend and learned that it was Lauren, Peg called me. She knew what good friends my son and Lauren were and wanted to save him from walking into school the next morning to face this news.
The early loss of my father had marked my life and I had so hoped my children could escape grief’s reach. As I climbed the stairs that night to wake Ben and break his life in two, I cursed the gods all over again. Of all people, why Lauren, and by extension why Ben?
Every year, once Ben calls, I go to the florist and pick out the one most vivid bloom, this year a salmon-colored rose. While the clerk adds greens and wraps it in cellophane, I surprise myself by blinking back tears. It’s been years since I did that. Lauren should be thirty this year and full of the challenge of a whole new stage of life. Like memory, grief doesn’t go away. It just lies in wait for a moment like this.
All winter they pile snow in the parking lot at the town pool. By the time March 2 comes around there is a mountain of it. I park there and walk across the street to the tree, the one where Lauren’s car came to rest. There is a permanent bouquet secured there of pretty spring flowers. All year, when I drive by I check to be sure it is still there. In the early days there were piles of flowers, which would disappear, no doubt cleared out by some civil authority, to gradually build back up soon after. Now when I see the occasional addition I smile, reminded that others remember too and feel moved to act.
I bend down to place the flower at the base of the tree and whisper to Lauren that we miss her and that Ben is fine and happy. I figure she would like to know that about her old friend. I linger a moment before I climb back over the snow bank and return to the car. My mood starts to lighten even as I think of her family who has found a way to live on, and the others who love and remember her too today. The year turns soon after, spring comes, renewing energy and hope. But it doesn’t come until we’ve remembered Lauren.
First, I loved Lauren because she loved my son. Then, as I got to know her, for being so vividly herself. And for making everyone she met feel included and important. And for making her 14 years of life just as full and complete as much longer ones. And now I love her for her legacy – to be smart and provocative and unafraid – that makes me want to be more like her every day, and to tell her story to you.
CBH 03/10
