remembering John Brown

I’ve had a thought sitting quietly in the back of my head for a while. Every so often, he looks up from the book he’s reading and asks if I’ve gone to see John Brown yet. I always had an excuse – bad weather, not enough time, already had plans, etc.     He nods and goes back to his book – not insisting, but not leaving either.

This morning, he looked up at me from his book and over his glasses. “Any excuses today?” he asked and I didn’t have any.

So, I got in my car and headed out. It had been a very long time since I’d been to the cemetery where John is buried and of the two routes I thought would take me there, I picked the wrong one first. I found a cemetery – but not the right cemetery.

Back on track and more driving. I found it, pulled in, parked my car, and tried to pull back that memory of where his grave was. It had been a very long time and it wasn’t where I thought.

I spent an hour methodically going through the Stow Cemetary and found:

7 people with the last name of Brown buried there.
4 fresh graves – which seemed sadder for some reason.
1 headstone that had been knocked over – but too heavy for me to right.

I was cold. The wind had picked up and the sky was overcast when I finally found his grave in section G.

I sat down and with a burst of tears that surprised me, I remembered.

—

I was in a fraternity when I was in college and John was one of the senior members. He was… well… kind of amazing. Tall, smart, good-hearted, and with a presence. And for all my efforts to be someone – anyone – I seemed to default to the background.

John had fought and beaten cancer when he was younger. People listened when he spoke and he had an easy smile.

I was intimidated by him. He seemed too good to be true, but he was somehow my friend and accepting of the astonishingly awkward person I was.

I was still involved with the fraternity after I graduated college and we were both alumni in the winter of 1996. On equal footing, perhaps, but I was still in awe of him.

I was visiting my family around the holidays when I got a call from one of my friends.  John had been killed in a car accident by a drunk driver. He, his girlfriend, and his nephew Max were killed instantly. He was buried next to his nephew – they had been close despite the age difference.

I got back in time for the funeral and tried to write something meaningful to say to the rest of our friends. I made a hack of it, but I tried.

John was the first person close to my age that I had known to pass away. I had lost grandparents and knew of other older people to have passed – but this was the first that wasn’t a long illness or after a full life.

He was my friend and he was suddenly gone.

—

I sat there for a moment – knowing that we wasn’t really there and that this was just a place – and spoke to him.

I apologized for not visiting in so long. I told him I’d been thinking about him and what he had meant to me all those years ago. And I thought, but couldn’t say, that I hoped he would have been happy with the person I turned out to be. A little more brave, a little more sure of myself, kind, and good-hearted.

I got back in my car and my Alana Davis CD started playing. By co-incidence, the next song was her cover of “The Reaper“.

I smiled.

I don’t really know what to believe about what happens to us when we die, but I can’t believe that the spark that makes us who we are can ever really go out. So, I hope that where-ever he is, that John is happy.

And that little voice in my head finally put down his book, nodded, and wandered off to where-ever our thoughts go when we don’t need them.

John Paul Brown 1968-1996