The Minutiae of Life as a Militant Squirrel

Today is my brother's birthday.

He's 41, just a little more than a year younger than I am, and yet there's a lot of people in my life now who don't even know that I have a brother.

( We haven't spoken in more than fifteen years. )

I woke up this morning with two things on my mind: cherry danish, and this guy I used to know.

Okay, the breakfast pastry? That, I get.

Why I'm thinking about Matt Croce after losing touch fifteen years ago or more? That, I *don't* get.

We worked together at-- okay, pause and laugh, but you know, IT WAS COLLEGE, THERE WAS NO PLACE ELSE TO WORK-- Ponderosa Steakhouse. He was one of those sweet, shy guys that I always thought I frightened and ended up befriending without really knowing how it happened. We actually didn't get to be close friends until after I left there to work as a counter girl at the laundromat in the same shopping center . . . I still remember glancing through the plate-glass window while I was working one day and recognizing him as he passed by, though I don't recall whether I went running out or he came running in.

What I do recall is that he had somewhere to go, but he came back later, and we talked FOREVER.

And after that, we were friends.

He eventually went away to school at Johns Hopkins to become a medical illustrator-- he was an amazing artist, and used to decorate the letters he wrote with all kinds of little drawings and cartoons. I still have them, somewhere. Yes, I'm a total packrat. WHAT.

And somewhere along the line, more and more time passed between letters, and eventually, there was a letter that was never answered, and that was how we lost touch.

It was probably my fault . . . as a born procrastinator, I've always had a nasty habit of starting things and not following through, and that includes pen-pals-- especially once I'd get into the winter months and the depression would kick in. I do recall that he called me at least once, shortly after my purse had been stolen, so I didn't have his phone number any more to call him back, and he didn't leave the number on my machine.

I guess at some level, I just always thought there'd be time to reconnect.

Or maybe, part of it was that my boyfriend at the time was a real dick who didn't like me having friends of the opposite sex-- I mean, he even got mad about my GAY guy friends-- and I was stupid enough and insecure enough and desperate enough to believe, somewhere deep down and secretly, where I wouldn't even admit to myself, that the boyfriend was more important that the friends.

And maybe it was easier to let Matt slip away than to let him know what was happening. It was certainly easier than confronting my boyfriend the asshole.

Maybe it was all of the above.

I hope he's well and happy, wherever he may be. I did some Googling . . . it looks like he got married and has a couple of kids. Seems like he's still running marathons-- he was a cross-country runner when I knew him, IIRC. I wonder if he got into his job field, got out from under his brother's shadow, got what he wanted out of life. I hope so.

People grow and change, and friendships, like all relationships, come and go to a certain extent. But I can't help feeling that I shouldn't have let this one go-- and definitely not so easily.

And I guess that's what my subconscious was trying to tell me, when I woke up this morning thinking about Matt.

Hey, Matt?

For what it's worth? I'm sorry. I was young and I was stupid, and man, if I could take it back I totally would.

I really hope you're living an awesome life without any regrets.

Love,

me