Lawrence Pauli.

Lane made me cry for the second time today.

In high school we were never that good of friends, but we played football and soccer together, and though we didn't hang out a lot, I would still have considered him a good friend. One night at a JV football game, my fellow classmate was injured. He was an all-star fullback and I was on the sidelines where I spent most of my time that year. I thought I'd be nice and help him into the ambulance, since he couldn't move himself. As he got in, he looked me in the eye and said, "thank you", and for whatever reason, that moment etched itself into my brain. Not long after that my dad had some business at his father's funeral home and I sat in the car outside reading the sign and thinking about Lane's comment to me, eyes welling up with tears. For some reason those two words meant so much to me. How could someone in such excruciating pain and unable to move have the presence of mind to think about someone else? It was (is) a powerful picture to me of how selfish I was (am) and how gratitude and unselfishness goes a long way.

Today at his funeral, I cried again. I didn't expect to. After all, we weren't that good of friends, but as I heard stories about his life, enjoyed and lived to the full, spent in reckless pursuit of happiness for himself and his friends, as I saw pictures of the kid that he was, of the man that he grew into, of the wife and kids he leaves behind, as I listened to my best friend from 15 years ago comment on how in a year, we'll all be back for our 10 year reunion and it's a shame that in the past nine years, this is the event that would bring us together--as all these events happened around and within me, I rejoiced and mourned. It was terribly sad that his life was cut short. It was gut wrenching as his widow placed her solitary red rose atop the coffin and leaned over and kissed it as if kissing him for the last time, her legs barely able to support her. It was interesting to watch the stoic face of a man who's lifetime has been surrounded by planning events like the one he was in attendance at today, to wonder what was in his mind, what it was like to be on the other side.

I have been thinking about life some. About legacy. About if that were my funeral, who would be there? What would be said? Would people remember me as the lecherous, selfish, diffident, and often timorous boy that I often feel like, or would the tragedy or such an event leave people searching for something good to hold on to, something positive to justify this outrage? Lane compared life to a blank art canvas, that anything you can dream, you can create. As I reflected on my canvas, it still seems mostly blank. I feel as if I've spent years getting the paints ready, beginning to mix colors and pick out paintbrushes, training and preparing to one day put some of that paint to use. The scribbles and chicken-scratches that are on my canvas don't quite make sense, don't point to the larger picture, don't hint at what is yet to come.

I recently mocked an older gentleman speaking to our demographic when he used death as an impetus for us to think about life. Most of my friends and myself included don't think about death that often. I leave that to my parents and their parents to think about. They're the ones that are close, not me.

Lane reminds me that our time here is not permanent. My friend who has the same disease his sister died of a little over a year ago reminds me that we are only here for a little while longer. I want to engage this life as though it were special, as though I was living simultaneously for the moment and eternity.

I want to start painting.