It’s 7 p.m. and by now the whole town knows Randy died this morning in South Carolina. My youngest daughter is about to find out. Her sister drew the short straw. It was 7 years ago tomorrow that I had to tell her that her best friend died. Had to do it on the phone. She was in California visiting my sister. Wake up, Cassie. Tony died. How do you tell a kid that?
Now it’s Randy, Tony’s best friend. Seven years later on a Thursday, same as Tony. 6:30 a.m. alone in a car, same as Tony. This morning, Tony’s mother was on her way to South Carolina to visit Randy’s parents. She’s there now, comforting and not visiting, no doubt reliving her own hell of seven years ago.
Too many “coincidences.” I don’t buy it. Something evil is at work here and I’m pissed and sad and hating the fates.
Tomorrow is the anniversary of Tony’s death. He was 17, bound for college in the fall, beloved by me and my husband and everyone who ever met him, and a good friend of my children (he and Carlene went to prom one year and he begged me to let him date Cassie, but I said no because he was two years older than her and that was my rule). His parents were at my daughter’s wedding last August – his mother was a bit reluctant because she knew had Tony lived there would have been a good chance that it would be their son saying “I do” and not a boy named Matt.
I’m all kinds of sad right now. Please forgive this discombobulated post, but Randy’s death and the anniversary of Tony’s death, well, it has my head spinning and my eyes crying and yet I had to put this out there so I didn’t feel alone. Does that make any sense?
If you’re the praying kind, please keep the Stroup family in South Carolina in your prayers. If you meditate, please keep their name in your thoughts. I thank you very much.