Charlie's Yearbook

Dear Charlie,

I'm writing to you from a spiritual realm that looks a lot like our homeroom in high school.

I bet you didn't realize that when you die, they give you a yearbook.

It's pretty sad when you look back at your life and realize nobody voted you Most Likely to Succeed.

I don't know if you remember me, but I sat behind you in homeroom.  My last name was Stames, and yours was Stamp, and so we were locked together for four years.  Just because of the alphabet, isn't that funny?

Isn't it odd the way that school groups us together with certain people and then we feel a kinship with them throughout our lives?

I think you said three words to me in high school, if that, and yet here I am, writing in your yearbook--trying to summarize my experience with you as we both head off in different spiritual directions.

I died just a few seconds after you did, Charlie.  I was on a bus heading to Chattanooga, and my heart just gave out.  It was quick and fairly painless.  At least, I don't remember the pain.

I woke up in a room with a chalkboard, and empty desks, and you in front of me.

I tapped you on the shoulder, but you didn't turn around.  I kept tapping, and finally I got up to stand in front of you, and it wasn't you.  It was some old man looking scared.  Looking like he was lost.

I tried to tell you, 'Charlie, you're not lost.  You're dead.'

But you couldn't hear me.

So I went back to my seat and sat down.

Do you know anything about my life, Charlie?  For four years, we sat within a foot of each other five days a week, nine months out of the year, and you don't know anything about me, do you?

You don't know that my mother died when I was very young, and my father got remarried to a woman who hated me.  You don't know that my dream was to be a oceanographer.  You don't know that I'm allergic to onions.

All that time spent so close together, and we're complete strangers.

Isn't that crazy?

Think of how many people we've come into contact with in our lives that we know nothing about.

Charlie, I'm sitting here behind you writing in your yearbook.  I'm looking through your photos and I see two women--one of whom I'm assuming is your wife, the other maybe a second wife or a mistress.

There's a young girl that I'm guessing is your daughter, because she has your eyes.

There are trips and cookouts and rain and drinking and dancing and more drinking.

You've had quite a life, Charlie.

My yearbook's a little bit smaller.  Not as many pictures.  A lot fewer people.

...There's a photo of us.

Right here.

That must have been the day of the school field day.

I completely forgot about that.

We had the Homeroom Tug-of-War Battle, and you and I were at the back.

I remember thinking we were going to get creamed, because the other homeroom had half the lacrosse team on it, but right before it started, you looked at me and said--'If you won't let go, neither will I.'

I said, 'Deal' and five minutes later, we were pulling the other homeroom right over the line.

This might sound sad, but to this day, that's one of my biggest accomplishments.

It's sad that I don't have that many happy memories and I still forgot one of them.

What about you, Charlie?  Any happy memories you've forgotten?

Just in case the bell rings soon, I should probably write some standard yearbook phrases.

'Best wishes.'

'Good luck.'

'You'll do great.'

Don't be afraid, Charlie.

I'll sit here--right behind you--until you realize what's happening.

Until you realize you're not lost.

'Til we're both ready to move on.

If you won't let go, neither will I.

Don't worry, Charlie.

I remember the deal.