Today's date: July 1, 2002
The date one year ago today: July 1, 2001
Where I was: The Thomas's house
The mood: Tragic, tears rampant, blank stares, people in shock, bittersweet reunion of old friends
Why I was there: To provide support, sympathy, and strength to the Thomas family
How I acted on the outside: Gentle, soft but firm, no tears, comforting frown
What was held on the inside: Flashbacks of times past, a fight for meaning, tears pushing for secretion

In my early childhood, at the point where I can actually remember vivid things from my life, my family and I lived in a quaint little neighborhood called Fox Run. We had terrific neighbors in the Thomases: Kind and cordial Miss Pat and Mr. Bob. During our carefree youth, Camille and I would skip next door and play with the Thomas children: Laurie, Clair, and Aaron. Laurie only joined in our fun seldomly because she had outgrown our adventures long before; I believe she's eight years older than I am. Clair was always my favorite. Even though she had a few years of age on me, I loved playing games with her, even if sometimes she was just doing it to make me happy. Because Aaron fit between me and my sister in age, he would most often be by our side whenever we had one of our neighborhood endeavors. Miss Pat could ask my mom what we were up to, and we little ones could be playing hide-and-seek in the Thomas's basement; we could be performing cartwheels waiting our turn at the Atari; we could be swinging on the outside bench and seeing how high we could soar; we could roleplay in the backyard, pretending we were the big, tough eighteen-year-olds we hoped we would become one day.

I am nothing like the biker eighteen-year-old I played back in the late 1980s. Camille, at seventeen, still has one year to transform into whomever she pretended to be.

Aaron did not live to be eighteen.

On July 1, 2001 my mom picked up the phone, and soon I could her her voice tighten, shake, and elevate about an octave. She responded to my concerned look, and can recall the words she splattered out verbatim: "They shot Aaron Thomas to death." My mom wasn't quite sure what exactly she was saying. Of course, we didn't know exactly what had happened, but one thing proved definite: for the first time in my life, death had a face. One year ago today I was first impacted by another person's demise. My grandparents died during my early years when I was in the backyard with Aaron, so I had never lost someone close to me when I was truly aware of what exactly death is. I would never see Aaron again. Someone I had grown up with had lost his life before he was fully grown. One year left of high school, never to be completed.

Aaron goofed around in moronic high school ways at his friend's house on the final night of his life. Apparently they decided to have fun with shaving cream, splattering it on the ground, slinging it on the walls, smearing it on their faces. Aaron walked toward the bathroom to wipe his face clean. As a joke, his friend would startle him by flashing his rifle at Aaron while his face turned. A cream-filled hand slipped on the barrel, a finger struck the trigger, and a bullet ran through Aaron's neck. The friend screamed in astonishment, called 911, and called Miss Pat. Miss Pat rushed down the block in time to see her son die in her arms.

Guns terrify me to this day. If I know I'm in an armed house, my heart races and I think of Aaron. His family has forgiven the friend, who must have had an incredibly rough time back at the high school Aaron would have graduated from a month ago. That day when friends and family gathered in the Thomas's home to try to alleviate all the overwhelming tragedy and trauma, a few of us looked around and realized we had not all been together in a few years. We had all moved from Fox Run except for the Thomases, and I was overlooking the old basement, the old swing, the old backyard. One of our former neighbors wiped away a tear and remarked at how warmed she felt seeing all of us back together, all sharing in the present rather than merely remembering the past from afar.

A truly bittersweet reunion. We enjoyed seeing each other again, but while we were able to share in our present lives and keep touch for the future, we knew we were missing someone who would not be able to attend any future reunions.

Aaron Thomas was my childhood buddy. He always will be.