on remembering the unknown.

I stare into the mirror countless times a day, inspecting all the raw elements of my body. All the time wasted obsessing over the extraction of blackheads, the removal of hairs, trying and testing out the elasticity of my skin, stretching the wrinkles back five years, and cupping the back end that wasn’t nearly as big a few years ago, and all the while I wonder if my husband knows that I used to be sort of a hottie. Apparently he thought I was at the time he married me four years ago, but a lot has changed since then. I’ve adapted to his eating habits, I don’t have money for contacts, I don’t have time to exercise, I’m no longer tan but have the pasty complexion of an insider, and my apparel is slightly reminiscent of a librarian, and not the sweet and sexy kind either, just the frumpy grumpy kind that will harass you over late fines while her pantyhose are slipping down her chunky thighs and unshaven shins. And it’s only been recently, with my more engaged time with the imperfection reflection, that I’ve realized more boys like me than I ever thought was possible at the time when I was actually living it. I felt so sorry for myself that no one ever showed any interest in me, but now I know better, and I know a little bit more about how male minds work, but not entirely. I should’ve been content with myself and I should’ve stopped fussing over whether boys liked me or not. All boys, except for my husband, turned out to be trouble anyway.

But the other day I was thinking of one of those boys from high school. I was thinking of what a jerk he was, and how he brutally harassed me in the quiet, class-is-in-session hallways of our high school. He wasn’t always a jerk, and he didn’t always slam me into the lockers or knock my books out of my hands or make fun of my awesome change-colors-in-the-sun surfer tee shirt I got at Thrift Town. No, he saved that for after we went to the Pink Floyd laser show at the planetarium, and we sat next to each other in the dusty, broken down reclining seats.

His hand was placed on my knee, safe for a minute until the heat from his palm burst through the cotton-spandex of my pants to the soft and shaven skin of my thigh. His huge hand roughly gliding up my thigh until I picked his hand up and dropped it back at the safe zone. A few more rehearsed tries of his hand skating over my pants, and me dropping it back to either my knee, or as the laser show progressed and me desperately wanting him to get the idea, I even dropped his hand back in his own lap. Then, believe it or not, but mostly believe it since we were in high school and he was a teenage boy, he leaned in for the kiss. I pushed him away, and the lights went on, and my mind was no longer befuddled by The Wall or the boy who couldn’t learn. And as our group walked back to the car in the cold crisp downtown air, I kept my distance from him, and his lanky form strode next to his friend as they laughed and talked about the universe, or what have you. After that night, after dropping his ego back in his lap, he tormented me.

I have never forgotten the fear, the panic, the embarrassment of his torture, and I hated him, and have hated him for the past nine years. I thought of him just the other day, still trying to grapple why he did what he did, and if he ever felt sorry or if he ever even remembered me. I’ve wasted time remembering him, even though not all memories are bad: like the time my friend Sophie told me that me and Garrett would make a perfect couple because we had such unique styles and we were both tall, and I guess at the time it seemed like adequate credentials. And I remember when she said that I was wearing tube socks, chucks, and a cut-off denim skirt on which I drew in permanent marker on the back right pocket the Operation Ivy punk. I’m glad that my “unique” style didn’t follow me too far after high school(but I guess my librarian style isn’t that much better); and then there was the time that Nate and I left school to go “fishing” at one of the local parks. We stood on the deck, plopped our mini poles into the water, and caught some first-class goldfish, which we quickly put into a mason jar full of water. That jar would be cupped in my hands as Nate drove recklessly to Garrett’s house, and while no one was home, we would sneak into the backyard and drop our catches into Garrett’s beloved koi pond, laughing maniacally at his coming reaction to our blending of his koi ecosystem with our cruddy, low-class goldfish. “Dude, stop dumping fish in my pond,” he would say to Nate, but would remain silent to me.

Then, three days ago a friend asked if I knew Garrett Smith. I laughed and said yes. Then she said that she felt so bad for his wife, and I asked her why for? Because he died. In an avalanche. Last week.

My mind went sort of fuzzy, and I couldn’t believe what she was saying. I remembered his face, his smile, his long hair, his laugh, and I told myself that those images couldn’t have faded, they still had to exist somewhere, he couldn’t really have died. Were we really talking about the same person? Surely we weren’t. There must’ve been another Garrett Smith that went to Skyline, that graduated in my class, that was an outdoor enthusiast, that was a falconer. But after my probing questions as my friend drove, I stopped talking, stopped thinking, and realized I had wasted so much time remembering him for who he was that I never bothered to think of who he turned out to be.

After our car ride, I got onto campus and did a Google search of Garrett. “Avalanche Victim Garrett Smith Remembered.” There were links upon links of news articles, articles written by friends, blog posts, photography archives of his work, and I sat for an hour and read all I could find on him. So much talk of his passion for life, love, and for the savior. How he sought to change lives, and he did. The lives he inspired and the lives he touched, the words of God that he proclaimed in foreign lands. I saw pictures of him and his wife on their wedding day a year ago, and I cried for her, for that smile that she’ll miss and never forget for the rest of her life, even if she finds and marries another, she will never forget that smile, those hands, that voice that spoke and comforted so many. 

I’m turning twenty-six this summer, and I haven’t done nearly as much as those who have died so young. I think of my cousin Autumn and the way she was killed in a car accident caused by a reckless driver, and I think of how utterly selfless she was, and her sweet spirit and soul, and her innocence and how she embraced the world with her whole being. I didn’t know Garrett after high school, but now I know that he became a selfless being, striving to make the world full of kindness and godliness. I know that I should’ve forgiven and have forgotten long ago the torment he caused me. And I hate that it’s taken his death to make me really realize how wasteful I’ve been with my time in dwelling on the past, and not moving forward with my own potential. Now, when I think of him, I’ll remember the Garrett I didn’t know, and I’ll remember the Garrett who sacrificed his time and devotion to acts of selflessness and love. And I’ll also remember my own life and the chance I have to become selfless and forgiving.