The Best of Us

"Do you remember my son?"

"No, ma'am. I don't remember him."

He wasn’t familiar to me at all, but I could see his father in him. John was tall and thin, with a working man's suntanned skin and gray stubble. His age was impossible to determine; my best guess put him somewhere between 50 and 70. The crow's feet around his eyes had flown many a mile, and his glance was friendly, but distant. He shook my hand and spoke a warm southern greeting in my direction, but I could tell he didn't really know me. Or care.

"Oh, I'm sure you met him. This is John, and Will is over there," Eloise pointed to a far table at the yard sale. I was there for the treasures as much as I was for the memories.

"And my other son, well. You know we ... lost him."

It was a heavy moment.

His name was Michael, and they didn't "lose" him.

He was murdered.

By her grandson.

His sister, Christine, stared off at the busy highway, pretending not to hear the last.

Eloise stared off into years gone by.

Smiling, moving forward, Eloise hugged me. "Thank you for coming. It's so nice to see you!"

I hadn't seen Eloise or her former husband George in years. They lived on the corner of a major intersection in town, and I'd pass right by that mid-century brick ranch any time I went into the city. Sometimes, I'd spot George tinkering in the yard, if the weather was good enough.

But I never stopped.

I never spoke.

And now he's gone.

Here in front of me was one of his sons, standing two feet away, and it was like I was looking thirty years into the past.

Eloise had her arm around me, holding me close.

"I'm glad you stopped by. I was just talking about you the other day, wondering where you were, what you were doing."

"It's true." Her granddaughter Christine had moved closer, participating in our conversation since talk had shifted away from nearly discussing her brother. "I told Gran that you and I were Facebook friends, but then you were just gone." I explained that I shut down and deleted my account years ago.

Christine is close to my age, and had been one of the River girlfriends.

That River is a magical place where all of our grandparents lived; instead of a condo in Boca, our people bought cabins and trailers along the banks of a lazy, mystical river that flows through south Georgia, down past Savannah and into the arms of the Atlantic. On weekends and on summer breaks, I spent a lot of time along the banks of that river.

During some of the happiest weekends, Christine would also be visiting at the same time as me. If we were both extremely lucky, she would be without her brother. The two of us, uninterrupted, conquered castles and slayed dragons, explored oceans and dived the deeps. Everything was innocent and kind and simple, and time spent together was one of childhood's pure joys. She was a beautiful girl in our youth, and she is a pretty woman in our prime, made prettier still by the adventures we shared as children.

She went from playing house along the banks of that river to keeping one of her own with the husband she warmly introduced.

When he walked away, we exchanged a look that wished for Gorbachev and Pepsi Free and only three channels on the television.

All the while, Eloise had me in a powerful hug. Finally, she shuffled back inside, explaining that she needed to fetch a gift for my mother. I continued to make small talk with Christine and Mr. Christine, who had returned to us with their son. I made a few jokes with the little boy as the matriarch finally returned.

"I've had these for so long. I think you and your mother will appreciate them more," she explained, handing me a few standard sized photographs.

For a moment, no one else in the world existed.

For a moment, I was surrounded by a world filled with Gorbachev and Pepsi Free and only three channels on the television.

I was moved back in time.

My grandparents.

At That River.

They were happy.

The man's man who made such a mark on me with all his stoicism and spare tenderness was smiling for the camera.

On the back of one of the photos, "1986" was scrawled in blue ball-point.

Cancer was a stranger in that photograph, and friends gathered at a Christmas party.

Eloise continued. "This was at our place on the river. You can see we're all there. Willie, making plans for the next New Year's oyster roast. Gail, happy as ever. Of course, your grandmother," her voice actually hitched. After thirty years, this eighty-five year old woman still mourned the loss of a dear friend. "She was our heart. When she died," another sigh, "things were never the same. We stopped going down to the river so much. Willie and Gail sold their place. Dean never went as often, either. And Anita...I think she took it harder than any of us." She did; Anita sold her house six months after my grandmother died.

This was a eulogy, a confession, from a woman widowed less than a year. She delivered her declaration with a depth of sadness not even reserved for her late husband. She spoke of him with love and tenderness, but no longer with mourning.

Three decades later, she still mourned the loss of my family. Thirty years of time and healing had still not filled the holes left behind by the absence of her dear friend.

I continued to look through the photos she'd given me, struggling to make sense of images that had suddenly become hidden behind refracting light and shadow of silent tears.

Smiling, I wiped my eyes and thanked her for such a precious gift.

Her arm returned to hug me as best as her five-one stooped frame would allow.

"She was the best of us." I just nodded, because that's all I could manage.

I couldn't help thinking, though, that if I were God for a day, if I ruled this world and the next, the best of us would never have gone.