How to convey this? How to dig deeply within my heart and lay bare this feeling, this experience, wrapped and rolled in words to be consumed and digested by others and appreciated; I continue to fall short.

For many years, since I was 3 years old in fact, Aaron James Larson was my friend, the very first one I’d made. Before I met Tim four houses down, played games in his back yard, played with his dog, Bowser, biked the trails by where we grew up in Shoreview, there was Aaron. Before Steve and their family moved in next door to me, where he and I would talk to each other through our bedroom windows after we were supposed to be in bed, spaced about fifteen feet apart from one another on a June night, close to this very time of year; Aaron was there first.

Through school, throughout growing up, Aaron was there. More specifically, Aaron was there for me.

All of the funny memories, the uplifting moments, these stories are bandied about by all of us who knew him, he was the life of every party, a true treasure to be around. People were drawn to his magnetic energy, his natural charisma, his universal sense of humor, and inclusiveness. I could lay down innumerable examples from the treasure trove we amassed together of these events, a fortress that grew more fortified with each passing shared experience, a promise of a lifetime of enriched happiness and understanding of one another.

This won’t delve into that; that’s not what my mind has gripped onto and decided to share today.

For today, 7 years ago, my life changed completely. The fortress was breached by a bomb from within, the unexpected happened when he died in that car accident. Left to forage through the wreckage, this once promising future of the most secure bond I had with someone else, the most platonic love I’ve ever known, the most understood I’ve ever truly felt by another person, that future, now oblivion. Unjudged, loved, appreciated… that bond with Aaron, it was the second closest to God’s love. In fact, I felt closest to God while sitting at those bonfires at the Larson house, just talking, listening to music, sharing the moments, the memories, the inside jokes and feeling truly happy.

When the bomb went off, many stopped by to check on me and this fortress. Seeing me sitting beside it, not weeping but numbed to my very core, they wept for me. They helped push the piles of rubble away and clear some room for me, and helped me back to my feet. They knew the daunting task ahead of me, and wanted to lend support how they could, I understood that approach, it’s something I feel I’d likely do. Others took one look and headed the other way. I understand that response, too. When faced with the seemingly insurmountable wreckage lain before your eyes, you don’t know where to begin to fix it, or help. I myself stood bewildered before it, in disbelief and horror.
It wasn’t that they didn’t want to help. They have different approaches.

As time went on, others would continue to drop by, check in on me and see how my “cleaning up the wreckage” project is going. They’d immediately bring him up, offering a tide of condolences and feeling the need to console me. It indirectly helped me, and it is appreciated greatly. Others shied away from mentioning him, avoiding bringing up his name, or even avoiding visiting me amidst the wreckage. They maybe wanted to give me space to sort this mess out a bit, to give me the ability to cope and grow from it. They also possibly were doing so out of necessity for caging their own grief, not wanting to succumb and lose themselves at the loss of Aaron, or of sorrow on my behalf, maybe even thinking that showing despair would further damage me in some way. Some even would voice frustration that I wasn’t along a certain dotted line, passed the grief and “doing well” by their own standard of judgment in some way. They perhaps were offended that I was being shown this attentive care by so many others through my loss that it perhaps overlooked their own suffering they’ve endured, and maybe jealousy dominated their minds.

I don’t blame them. Grief is a terribly heavy burden for anyone.

These days, I do my best to build around it, the wreckage, while I sweep and clean up inside, away from most prying eyes. I don’t feel the need or desire to let loose these diatribes often, like a fart from my brain for everyone to suffer through. Some have seen what it looks like inside, beyond the containment wall, and help me continue to fix it up.
However, I want to clarify a misconception that I’ve heard. Time heals all… that’s not the case. I can say from the wreckage, amidst the once safe, secure fortress turned to dust, the wreckage will remain. I will continue to build around it, to fill my life with more experiences, form strong bonds with close people of all ages, from all times of my life, and grow in this journey. I’ve learned that the wreckage itself will not clear, and it will hurt just as much every time I glance at it, or am reminded of it, but the ratio of destruction continues to decrease with each positive experience I’ve gained. I think most importantly, I don’t want the wreckage gone. I don’t want to ever forget or lose him, and I cherish all of the moments I had with him.

All of us have these fortresses. Aaron’s parents, his sister, their family, all of them who I love and consider family too, as well as their extended family and Aaron’s friends, all of us are sifting through the wreckage in our own fortresses. Sometimes we don’t always have the time or the right words to convey, or it comes out differently than how we want it to. But, I understand completely, and this doesn’t mean my feelings or care for any of you has changed or faded in the least.

The moments I catch myself giving a look that Aaron used to, saying a phrase he’d say or being reminded of an inside joke between us or something, it stuns me a moment, leaving me arrested by memories. Warmed by the feeling, a bittersweet symphony cleansing my mind, there are times I smile, there are times I hold back tears.

But I’m the best version of myself I can be, thanks to him, and I’ll continue to honor him and his memory in all ways I can… and continue to seek positive experiences, and acknowledge the wreckage in my own way.