Endi. What would I do differently if you were here? Would I call you? Make an effort to spend time with you while you were home visiting? Write you an email just to see how you were doing in Australia? Unlikely. I was nobody important in your life, just another person on the periphery of some circle of family acquaintances; a down-the-street neighbor; Simon’s friend’s Mother; nobody, really. But I can’t help but wish so strongly that you were here, and that I could spend some time just talking with you. Perhaps I would have seen you again at this year’s Christmas party - I was hoping for a foosball rematch. I believe the first words I ever spoke to you were, “your name precedes you,” because before I ever met you, I knew you through your Mother’s stories and through Anthony and Simon’s eyes as the popular, older guy they looked up to.
Not a day has passed since I heard the tragic news that I have not thought of you and your family. Not one day. I’m not like you, Endi. I don’t live a fearless, adventurous life; quite the contrary. But the most amazing thing has happened – I would have presumed that your death would justify and reaffirm my anxieties, but for some reason, I feel compelled to live more adventurously – and to accept that there is risk inherent in everything we do, and to do it anyway. And not just for me, but for my boys. It’s uncomfortable to think of the possibility that I may outlive my children, but I cannot deny that this possibility exists. Regardless of which one of us goes first, you and your parents have taught me to work hard to give my kids the best possible life with the richest possible experiences. To identify their strengths and what makes them unique and to celebrate them for it. To give them the freedom to explore their worlds, and the confidence in knowing that no matter where they go or what they do, they will always, always be loved.
For the first time, I took my kids on a long trip. We went to Switzerland and Germany. For many years and for just as many reasons I have been afraid of doing so – the flight was too long and too expensive, the surroundings too uncertain, and in recent years, that Anthony was too tall to comfortably fit on a plane (or in a plane bathroom). But I did it. And as beautiful as the trip was, I spent much of the time watching my kids experience life. Watching them watching the lakes, rivers, and mountains; watching them absorb another culture; watching their worlds expand.
Our last morning in Geneva, I woke Anthony up early and we walked through the city to get breakfast. We sat outside, I drank coffee and Anthony had an apple cinnamon crumble as people walked through the plaza and an accordion played in the background. What a memory. Inspired by you, dear Endi.
Rana