yearbooks

04/01/2010

my senior year of high school I had a great group of friends, a lot of activities, the perfect boyfriend, a shitty car. I had Jackson Meeker, a tall doughy buddhist from Athens, Georgia who has gone on to become a social worker, married, living in the suburbs with his high school sweetheart. We don’t keep in touch as often as I think we thought we would. He wrote possibly my favorite thing I’ve ever had written to or for me. And there’s a lot of stuff, friends.

He wrote:

One day I will open these pages in this book with my children, this book with a tye-dyed front because we let the ugly girls run yearbook this year, and I will point to your picture and say “I know Meredith Kachel. I knew her when she was a scrappy lass.”

And my children will say “THIS IS STUPID WE HATE YOU DAD!” and I will weep and insist on family counseling. But none of that matters, because I knew Meredith Kachel. And my kids are fags.

Jackson.

I like remembering our relationship like that. Young and funny and strong.

Lately (I say lately as if I haven’t been obsessing about this since I was 8 years old) I’ve been thinking about epitaphs, eulogies, obituaries, wedding speeches. The summarizing of a relationship with someone while maintaining a straight face, an effective air of poignancy and sentimentality. The moments I look forward to in life will happen when I’m gone. And let’s face it, I’ll probably never get married.

I just wish I could get it all in writing.

Those friends drifted, the activities took a backseat to work, booze, and school, the boyfriend killed himself, and the car was smashed to pieces in Madison. but I’ve still got pen to ink that proves that existed, if only briefly.