Rest in Peace, Danny Pollock

My childhood friend, Danny, passed away last week.

I last saw Danny at Yawgoog Scout Reservation two years ago, where he and I spent so many glorious summer days.

Danny and I had planned to see each other again this summer at the annual camp reunion. Instead, I’ll be thinking about my friend as I walk those trails alone.

With Danny’s death comes a flood of stories I will undoubtedly share on stages and in writing soon. Stories of ways that Danny changed my life forever. Stories of our ridiculous adventures and asinine stunts and boyhood revelry.

But here is what lingers with me most as I think about him today:

As a teenager, I spent so much time with my girlfriend, Laura, and my friend, Danny. For a time, the three of us were inseparable.

Now they’re both gone.

Laura passed away a decade ago. And now Danny is gone, too.

I’m the last of the three still alive.

It seems impossible.

When I learned of Danny’s death, my very first thought was, “I need to call Laura,” which happens more often than I could’ve ever imagined. Years after her death, I still find myself forgetting that she’s gone. I suspect it will be the same for Danny, too.

It seems like one thousand years ago and just yesterday that Laura, Danny, and I were driving the streets of Blackstone, Massachusetts, laughing and thrilling at the freedom that comes with one’s teenage years.

I could never have imagined that two of the people in that car would be gone at such a young age.

It breaks my heart.

Here’s the strange thing:

It breaks my heart today, but somehow, it also breaks the heart of that teenage boy driving around in that car, unaware of how precious and brief the lives of his friends will be.

Does that make sense? I know it sounds strange, but it’s exactly how I feel. I somehow grieve over the loss of my friends today, but I also grieve for the younger version of me, blindly, blissfully loving friends who once seemed so vibrant and invincible.

I miss my friends today.

I suspect I will miss them every day.