I remember when he was born.

For 3 days now, I’ve laid awake at night with that thought reverberating in my head. I remember when he was born. It keeps coming at the weirdest times. When I’m at the office, digging through login scripts trying to make them work in the new environment. When I’m at home, pushing my way through the last 5 years of Lost because I haven’t slept in days. I remember when he was born.

Saturday was a sunshine day.

I distinctly remember the light stabbing me brightly in the face before I ever opened my eyes…

Wait.

Scratch that.

Saturday started pounding deeply into my skull before the Sun ever crossed the horizon line.It was the start of my last day of vacation, and I had made a point of spending the previous night participating in a ritual most sacred. Or at least a ritual that taking the sacrament in the form of Sangria, Cannonball shots, beer, and anything else that wasn’t nailed down. Moderation has never really been a strong suit. Besides, I’d met new friends, and one of them was an Irishman named Murphy, and that dude could throw down.

So yeah, Saturday was going to be a distinctly slow-moving morning. This is why I left the phone in the other room. I was on vacation, dammit! The world wouldn’t end it I didn’t answer it right away. Besides, after a few trips to the restroom, two bottles of water, a handful of aspirin, and a can of Coke, I was finally starting to pull myself together by 10 or 11 in the morning. Not too bad.

“That was not a wise move,” was the prevailing thought by that point. I had a Cavalcade event that night, which required a drive to Virginia to gather equipment, followed by an afternoon of shlepping it around, loading and unloading it, setting it up, breaking it down. Doing all of that while feeling like you were hit by a bullet train isn’t the best way to spend a day, so last night’s adventure was probably not the wisest bet. But after a shower, and another handful of aspirin, I was ready to go. 12 o’clock wasn’t all that late a start, anyway. I’d still have time to get everything. All I had to do now was grab my phone, now where the hell was it?

Eventually I dug it out from underneath the pillows it landed in when I chucked it across the room the previous night. Switching the screen on, I checked to see what the charge was on the battery. It was then that I noticed the missed calls from my parents.

Odd, they rarely call unless I go more than a few days without being in touch, and considering that I’d spoken to them twice the day before… A sinking feeling started to nestle right in there with the general queasiness of the morning. So I put down my things and called their house. After 3 rings, Mom answered.

“Hey Son,” She sounded tired. First thoughts: Something happened to Dad.

“What’s going on? I saw y’all called?”

“We just got a call from your Aunt NormaJean,” Oh no, it’s Gran. Last week, a tree fell on her house, with her in it. She escaped unharmed, but it was a shock to her system, is she ok? Please say she’s-“You know your cousin Christopher?” What? Uncle Bob-E’s younger son? Is he ok? Is his wife ok? Is little Jessie-”Kim’s boy.” Ok, different Christopher. Nice kid, barely into his 20’s last I heard…

Then everything stopped making sense.

”He died last night. Apparently he was in a Motorcycle accident.”

Not sure how, but I was now sitting on the floor in the living room.

“Little Christopher?”-Flashes of a young boy that barely came up to my chest meshed with the more recent images of that same boy now a man who was actually a few inches taller than me-”Big-Little Christopher? What? H-How?”

She had to say it three more times before it cut through the fog of confusion. It was then that the echoing reverberation started “But I remember when he was born!”

I’m sitting here, hands on the keyboard, processing the thoughts now, and getting angry. What do I say about him? How do I eulogize him? I can’t. Christopher was my cousin, but we weren’t close. Jesus, I can’t even remember his last name! What the hell is wrong with a person when he doesn’t even know his goddamn family when he sees them at least twice a year for 32 years?

But I remember when he was born.

Our family is beyond huge, and they are very tight-nit. I’ve always pulled a ways back from that, kept on the outer reaches of things.  I like my space. The relationship with my brother being what it is, the only real contact I have with family outside of holidays are the regular calls to my parents in New Mexico, and the irregular calls to my Grandmother in Virginia, which is the home to most of the rest of the family-save me and my brother in Maryland.

This is the way I liked it-until today.

I can’t do more than sit here (useless!) -ineffectively scanning my memories of Christopher. We were closer as kids, spending those holidays playing together. But once I was in my 20’s and off on my own, I almost never saw him, so all I can see is that little boy I used to goof around with after we opened our presents on Christmas Eve. Now he’s dead, and I’ll never get to see him at Labor Day or Christmas again. He wasn’t even 25. He was a good kid, and from what I know, he had his crap together way more than any of our generation did at his age.

In the coming days, there will be the funeral and reception. Kim, what can I say to Kim? Her son’s dead, and it’s not fair-there is nothing to say to that. I can’t even really be there for her, because I barely know her either. All I can say is I am so sorry, Kim. It’s not fair.

I can remember when Christopher was born.

And now I can remember when he died.

This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.

R.I.P. Christopher M. Ford