I love you.

A boy I went to grade school with passed away last week.

I haven't seen him in 25 years, at least. But his memory is haunting me these days. In my mind, I see the young 11 year old boy just as I remember him. He is sitting behind his desk, wearing his Catholic school uniform of yellow shirt and brown pants, and he is laughing.

In my memory, I am sitting across from him. And I am laughing, too, at something he has just said. He was that type, you know. Always saying something to make someone laugh.

It's as clear as day.

He was 41 years old. I don't know how he died. All I know is that he is gone.

And it is bothering me. Terribly. Like most things in life, I have to write about it. It seems to be the only way I can work it out. You see, I can't help but wonder about his life the past 25 years since I last saw him. We weren't particularly close. As I mentioned, I haven't seen him in about 25 years. But I remember him. So clearly. He was a nice guy. Really. And I wonder about his life. Now. Was he happy? Was he ill? Did he love? Did he laugh often, as I remember he did in grade school? Is he at peace? God, I pray he is.

41 years old.

I'd like to live to 80. I think 80 is a great age. My Grandma Josephine lived to be 88, but the last few years of  life were pretty hard on her. So, I am thinking that 80 years is a great time to go to move on to my next life.

41 years old.

I say "I love you" to Katie and Ella all of the time. I can't help it. If I am going to hop in the shower, I'll say "I love you" before I leave them in the family room. Once I get out of the shower, I'll always call down to check on them and follow it with an "I love you." I don't think I was raised in an overly affectionate household, and don't have many memories of hugs or being told "I love you" by my family. I felt loved, but I don't remember hearing the words very often. Maybe that is why I tell my girls I love them so often, so that they will remember it. I want them to know, at every second of the day, how much they are loved.

This morning, as I sat in my bathroom putting on my make-up, I heard Ella come upstairs. "Ella, is that you?" I called out. "Yes, Mom . . . I'm getting dressed," she answered. "Oh, ok. I love you," I said. "I love you, too," she answered. "I love you, three," I replied. "I love you four, five, six, seven, eight, nine and ten, Mommy," she concluded.

And I cried. Because I realized that John will never hear the words "I love you" again. And we will never hear John say them, either. 

41 years old.

John, I wish you eternal peace.

And I love you.

And for all those who were in my life those 25 years ago . . . it's been a long time. Thank you for being a part of my life. You are all in my heart today, and I send you love. Where ever you may be.

Peace.