I Couldn't Even if I Tried

I do not remember meeting you; I just remember you always being there. We were small, hyperactive, imaginative little kids. There was this time, when you lived on Harvard street, I will never forget, your neighbor spent all afternoon raking leaves, and the little shits that we were, of course we jumped in them. Of course, because we were five, and it was Fall, and you were you, and I was me. And they went everywhere. He was so angry, because he had stepped away just for a moment, to find plastic bags to rake them into and discard of them. But we beat him. You staked it out all day. That was all you could talk about; the giant pile of leaves we were going to jump into. So we jumped in them, and strewed them all over his yard and your yard, laughing, and staining our clothes with their colors.

And, it isn't just the time, or the place that I will remember, but each time I smell that holy rotten smell of wet, soggy, raked up leaves, I think of you. I will always think of you. It isn't about the U.S. Ski Team, or the times we spent on skis, as everyone is making it out to be. I know that was a big part of you, but it wasn't the only part of you. It's about the simple things we did together, the stupidity of it all: you eating dog food for a snack for a large portion of our childhood, no matter how much your mom or I protested. You convinced me to try it once. It was awful. We went camping, that one time, I'm sure you remember, and my dad somehow had bad aim and peed on his sock. He was so mad, but we laughed. And laughed some more, even when we were 20, and would think back on that camping trip.

And that's the thing, too, is that with you, it was always laughter. It was always fun. And this isn't funny. This isn't fun. No. This is horrible, and painful, and not at all fair. And I don't place any of those adjectives next to you when I think of you, but somehow, that's all I feel when I think about this. When I think about that I never can laugh with you again, my heart swells up into my throat. When I continue to realize the fact that I will never speak to you or see you again, I become mad. So God damned mad. I feel cheated. I feel jaded.

I know you wouldn't want me to cry. I know you wouldn't want me to be angry. I know, somehow, you would find a way to make this fun. You would look on the brightest side of it, and bask in that light as long as it lasted. You would do all you could to make this good, because you were good. You were so, so good.

Then there is this part of me that wonders if I am even qualified to be speaking on the subject of you, and who you were, or what you were about. Yes, we were attached at the hip until we were 12, but after that, we started to go on different paths. You became serious about ski racing, and left in the winters. We grew up. Life rolled by. We found different friends, gained different knowledge, enjoyed different hobbies.

But then, I think how every time you came back to town you called me. You never hesitated to reach out. Our lives were so different. I worked all the time, as did you, but differently. Yet, you'd come eat lunch where I worked if it meant we could sit and chat for five minutes. If we could hug, and catch up. And of course, you'd be there if it meant we could laugh. So I second guess myself, again, and say, yes, Paige, you are overqualified. Because to me, you were the best of a friend.

And after you started to reach your goals, after you were named to the team, and killing it in races, we made a deal. We agreed that when you won a bunch of gold medals and made all your success and retired, I was to write your book. We shook on it. We promised. But, you were only here to begin your first chapter. How could I possibly create a novel from only a few pages of life? You should be here. You should be living, and experiencing, so one day we could sit down and talk about it, and put it all down on paper. But you aren't here, and you won't be, and I hate that.

To the world and the headlines, you are Ronnie Berlack; fallen skier and prospect of the U.S. Ski Team. But to me, you are, and always will be, Ronnie; my oldest and closest friend who lost to me in the Roland Peabody Slalom in the third grade. (You beat me in the Gary O. Whitcomb GS in the afternoon, don't think I've forgotten). You are my one of many tall friends, but you were the only one who never ceased to remind me how short I was, and still am. You are the person who no one expected much out of, but you triumphed, and ended up being the most successful out of any of us. To me, you will always be you. And I will always miss you, for the rest of my days.

You, my friend, will be forever young. Forever skiing, forever laughing, forever causing the mischief you were always up to. I love you, I miss you, and I will never, ever forget you. I couldn't even if I tried.

(Bottom photograph taken by Kathleen Humphreys).