Sean.

My mother was right. Mothers always know these things, I suppose. She saw the way he looked at me. And I always smiled at her and said, "I know." But that was all I ever said.

He would come pick me up sometimes and we'd go to dinner, usually with friends. Or we'd go bowling. Or see a movie (he most always sat next to me...and I always enjoyed the company.) We'd hang around after church and play foosball and try to make up our minds about where to go.

He'd let me borrow his jacket when I was cold. Sometimes he'd force me to borrow it, because he'd always notice when I was cold. He'd pick me up if I needed a ride. He brought me this coin when he went to London. I still have it. I don't know what it is or where he got it. But he shyly approached me at church and gave it to me, looking as uncomfortable as I have ever seen him. We danced together 4 times at our first dance (and our mothers took a zillion pictures to commemorate the occasion... both our mothers were at our first junior high dance...how tragic that seemed at the time.)

There was one thing I could count on - he would never forget me. I could see it clear as day in his eyes. The day my dad passed away, his wordless hug is my clearest memory in a fog of confusion and unsettled misery . He stayed close to me; my every motion seemed determined his. He would jump up if I even looked like I needed something. He didn't know how to help me, but he put his heart into trying nevertheless.

The night I left for Chicago, when we sat in his car idling in my driveway and said goodbye (which even after that he walked me to the front door, because it was late). My mom was still awake, reading. She was up rather late and I am a bit old for someone to wait up for me to come home after a date...but since this was my last night at home, I didn't take trouble with it. She reminded me one more time...

"You know, he's always thought that you are a pretty special girl."

I smiled. "I know."

I wanted to leave. He wanted to stay. This may have well been the only major difference we had that we couldn't work out. Sitting here tonight, I wonder what was possibly more important in Chicago that compelled me to leave. But I would not have left had I understood that I would never, ever be able to come back.

There's an origami swan on my dresser and another in my jewelry box. How many hundreds more may be spread through drawers and boxes, I have no idea. He'd been making them in church and giving them to me since before we hit double digits. Olive Garden mint wrappers, gum or Starburst wrappers, receipts, etc. Actually, tokens of my teenage years are wrapped up in little tiny birds.

Where I was passionate and carefree and spontaneous, he was loyal and trustworthy and honest. Together we were balanced. His eyes radiated a steadfast kindness. Though we often disagreed, we'd never argue. Odd, since we were both stubborn to a fault. But when I just need to sit quietly, he'd sit quietly beside me. And he stood up for me in tense moments too; quietly, firmly, calmly sorting out the facts. I could take being wrong when he was the one who pointed it out to me. I never questioned our friendship. It was one of life's certainties in my mind. Each new day carries hopes for change, excitement, or some newness, but also for stability in what is known and taken for granted. I took him for granted.

An email shattered an idle Friday afternoon. The first time I read it, I immediately believed that I hadn't seen a word of it. My eyes skipped right over the words I didn't want to see. I quickly closed the email, pretending I hadn't seen it at all. I tried to go back to my work, but my hands were shaking. Finally I opened the email again, having convinced myself that it wasn't true, but needing to be sure it wasn't. I sat staring at that email until the clock hit 5. I left work without saying a word.

Then my mom called, realizing that no one had called me and frantically trying to reach me before the email that assumed everyone had already been told. Just her name on the screen and I felt the awfulness of the moment plunge into my stomach like a railroad spike.

I answered the phone. "I know."

She started crying. I bit my lip. There's things I know to say, but I could say them this time.

It was a dark and quiet week. I coveted the darkness of the covers pulled over my head. I longed for the silence of the night where I didn't have to push the pain away. At the same time I couldn't stand being alone, though I was poor company. If giving up hadn't been so easy, I probably would have done it. But taking the easy route would have been far too pleasurable and I wanted none of that.

I flew home after work on a Thursday. I hadn't been home in a year and three weeks. Pulling up to my family's home, I felt an strange sensation. I was coming to a place I knew deftly, but was having to dredge it out of the fresher memories of my new life. I walked slowly up the driveway until the motion sensor light clicked on, remembering that last night and almost hearing his voice and the car idling. I shivered. I wasn't cold, but I so badly wished I could be warm in his embrace one more time.

Spending time with friends and family was refreshing, but the gaping hole was evident in every silent moment. In all the preparations, we had to laugh and we had to cry. I watched his family. I remembered what that was like. People are all around you at first, and sometimes you have to go through the motions of grief, because you cannot keep repeating for every well-intentioned visitor who needs to grieve with you that which they expect you to feel, even though sometimes you don't feel that way at all. Sometimes you don't feel. Other moments are flashes of intense clarity in which you see the truth but have to push it away because it is almost too much to bear. The morning my dad passed away, I ate a half-pound of Russell Stover's truffles and then ran up the hill behind our house. The first real feeling I expressed to those around me was that of intense stomach pain. I always thought I could blame that on the chocolate and the running.

At church, I slid into that third-to-last rose-colored cushioned pew and scooted in, leaving the last seat open. I did this without thinking. I always left room for Sean to come in late. Mid-way through the second song, the sanctuary door opened. I actually turned, fully expecting it to be Sean. When it wasn't him, I realized that I would have to except this strange world we suddenly lived in without him. He wouldn't come slip in beside me with that slyly sheepish little grin and whisper "I slept in, what'd I miss?". The first thing I felt again was that intense stomach pain.

After the service, we went to Aaron and Roshan's new apartment. I hadn't seen them since before they got engaged, and now they had been married for several months. We shared stories and memories and laughed heartily. I think we laughed so because we needed not to cry, and laughter is nearest vent of emotional energy to tears. It felt natural and safe. These people are my childhood, my home. Home isn't a place. Home is those who know you best and love you anyway.

It's been two months. I'm holding one of these fragile little birds and missing him tonight. A fragile paper bird and a lot of memories. Is this life? If so, how silly I was to count on it! He couldn't steal another hour and I couldn't help him do it. The loss I feel means I loved him. It would be worse to not feel pain. I can't have him back. I don't know why it all had to happen this way. But he left me a dozens of origami birds, a coin, and a reason to smile through the tears. He taught me to value home. By leaving, he brought me home again. He made me remember the life that I had carelessly forgotten, and I remembered that I was loved and needed to love in return.

Sean was quiet, but never went unnoticed. He loved me and I am a better woman because of him and for love of him. I take account of everything he taught me and shared with me and believe that his was a life well lived.