Every year on April 17 at 11:55 PM, I light candles at the corner of Utah and University. (Except 04 when I was in Iraq. Big Forrest, rest in peace lit them for me that year). The first few times were horrific. Just going to that place sparked all the horror. I ran from that place for years. I ran to Los Angeles, and I ran to Iraq, and I ran to Arizona. Still, life kept pulling me back to the neighborhood, that corner.
I hated myself for the accident. I couldn’t understand how I had done something so stupid. Everyone knows you’re not supposed to play with guns, right? I beat myself up for years. Every day. How can I deserve to live when I had taken a life that was so beautiful?
And really, not just because he’s gone. Everyone who knew Thomas will tell you that he had an impact. One of my friends called him a spiritual dentist. He was the first man I ever met in recovery that was willing to talk about being molested as a child. Thomas saved my life.
Nothing was the same after the night of April 17, 2001. It’s still not the same. I will never be the same.
It took me years to figure out what forgiveness is. People told me to forgive, but I didn’t even know what it meant. When I had the realization, man, that was something.
Forgiveness is clearing resentment and abandoning revenge.
Nothing.
Fucking.
Else.
We can equate discontinuing punishment to entering a room. Sometimes we leave that room without knowing it. But as I grow further in recovery, I spend more time in forgiveness. I have forgiven myself: I still forgive myself. And I don’t need anyone else to forgive me anymore for the accident. But I still go every year to light candles on the anniversary.
It will be 20 candles tonight, one for each year. I will make the short trip to the spot. It is like I am not even moving my body; it is just autopilot when I go. I will sit, either surrounded by friends or not, and light those candles. I will tell Thomas about my year. I will sit as long as I need to and feel whatever I need to feel. And there is no more punishment. I have paid my dues. And grief remains. Only those who have accidentally taken a life know how it feels.
If I sit and take stock, life is good. I have very much to be grateful for. I appreciate my life. I’m ready to die when it’s time. I will continue to do my work. All of this is possible while in the hallway of grief. I enter it tonight, and I will remember Thomas. I will go to the place where he died and light those candles. As long as there is breath in my lungs, he will not be forgotten. Not because I owe him, but because I want to. Not because I owe anyone else, but because I still feel grief, and I honor that grief