Some Things Have Meaning

November 22, 2002

I went to an art opening tonight. Two girls were talking to me. I couldn't hear them. I could see them laughing. I knew one girl, but not the other. They are roommates, and they said they wanted me to make a painting for their apartment. I don't want to. Sometimes I like to do things for people. I like to give people things. I like to hear them say thank you and see their faces light up, and then I feel special. Like I exist. But sometimes I don't want to, so I said maybe.

One of the girls recently found her best friend dead in his apartment. She said that he had told her once that everyone has a metaphor—that everyone's lives can be seen in something else. That 'something' is different for everyone, he said. He used to make her paintings of birds. Watercolors. She told me that the next time she saw birds, she knew they were him. And I nodded. She started seeing birds everywhere. She said she knows that birds are everywhere, but she’s become much more aware of them. She told me she found a feather and that it was him letting her know that everything was going to be ok. I listened. When she spoke, she was somewhere else. Somewhere real. Far and distant and close and everywhere. I was there with her for a moment. I saw that place.

I didn't say much. But I told her that we see things every day with the potential for meaning, but they slip past us. However, once in a while, something happens to connect us more deeply. These profound moments can be few and far between, so when they happen, they should be cherished. She thanked me. She said I made her feel better, and she gave me a nice hug when I said I had to go.

On my way home, I thought about a girl I used to know named Rebecca. Rebecca had killed herself with Tylenol and Wine. It wasn’t her first try. When I first met her, I noticed her wrists. We met at a party. She said nice things to me and I tried to say nice things back, but mostly I just listened, and she liked that. We became very close very fast, but not for very long.

Eventually, Rebecca went home to Minnesota to get her life together. When her mom called to tell me she had died, I didn't need to ask how; I knew it was suicide. I didn't know her mother. She had looked me up in Rebecca’s phone book and called me. She said that Rebecca had spoken about me a lot and she knew I was special to her. I didn't cry. Not at first. It didn't seem real. But I cried later. I still think of her from time to time.. Like when the girl at the party told me about her friend. I can’t imagine what that would be like.

I don’t know why, but I was happy today. I haven’t been happy in a long time, but today I laughed about things and talked to some friends, and it was nice.