A Tale of Two Aarons

Today marks the 17th year since my dear friend, Aaron Cass, took his last breath and graced the earth. It was a day that changed my life forever - I've never been the same since. From major life events, to how I approach the loved ones in my life to even my "life's mission", 17 years ago, his death shook me to the core.

Yet, strangely, it feels like just moments ago that I heard the news from Chris Weatherup that Aaron was dead, standing there in the Commons at Fox Lane High School, dropping my backpack. It seems like only the other day that I spoke with Aaron on the phone, letting him know that I got into Oberlin thanks to "early decision," and that I was furious that he wasn't going to Madrigal Dinner because he was working at Lechter's instead. Wasn't it just a couple of months ago that we were at Eric Zipkin's party when Mike Columbo took that fateful fall, and you had just arrived? After all, just this April you and I danced your first real dance to "In Your Eyes" at my Junior Prom. Oh, and Aaron, by the way, that was the night that I realized my crush on Josh was long gone, and it was you that I really had developed feelings for. I remember the moment - the exact moment - when that realization dawned on me. We had just dropped Josh off, and we were sitting in your car on Upper Shad Road trying to figure out what to do next. You were trying to think of things to say to Josh to get him to "notice" me, and I just kept thinking to myself, "Why bother?" But I didn't dare tell you why.

How life has changed, Aaron! It's remarkable. Now, I'll never get to tell you to your face. Which is why my life was never the same. You see, that fear that I had that night in April 1991, and all those nights subsequent to December 15, (ironically, though, save the day that you died, and had you lived only hours later, you would have seen I'd finally built the courage to tell you how I really felt), had subsided. I have a daughter, who knows very well who she is named after - half Ari, half you - and knows what an amazing person you were. She knows that she, her brother and I have a guardian "paladin" watching over us, illuminating our way.

As I write this, though, I cannot help but smile, in that snarky way that I have, though, at the irony.

On the one hand, I reflect upon your passing, and your absence in my life.

Yet, on the other hand, I see another Aaron in my life, to whom I remarked this weekend, that, really, outside of camp and specific instances, when mentioning the name "Aaron," it was only you to whom I referred. I never really had to use your last name. I just had to say, "Aaron," and people knew about whom I was speaking.

I've had to reprogram myself, however, not attach your face, exclusively, to the letters A-a-r-o-n. Isn't that strange? 17 years of programming to undo. You would think it would have been difficult to do - confusing, somewhat painful - but it's not. In a strange, cosmic way, it even makes sense. And I have to think that, perhaps, part of you is proud of me. I'm never going to be able to "move on" from you, Aaron. You've had too great an impact in my life. I've never really had to let go of you, either, because I've always felt your presence with me. From the weeks and months after your death, when you'd appear to me in dreams that were more real than the day-to-day - when I could practically feel you next to me, and waking felt like the dream itself, to coming to in the ambulance after what should have been my fatal car accident to see you holding my hand to the day that Ariella was born and Orion guided the way to the hospital and remained hovering overhead, even when, based on the movements of the constellation, Orion shouldn't have been there anymore.

I'm finding, however, that your name is no longer just your name. That it's not just you that brings a smile to my face when I hear that letter combination. That I want to talk to another that has your name. And that I will never make the mistake of being too shy to express how I really feel with Aaron because of how I masked myself with you, Aaron.

I guess it kind of makes you "Classic" Aaron, and the other "New" Aaron, or visa versa. Or "Regular Aaron" and the other "Cherry Aaron," or something like that.

But, lest you think as time passes, and the name "Aaron" no longer applies to you, do not be fooled. When my lips form the name, "Aaron", and my eyes well up in sorrow, my voice cracks, and I'm overwhelmed with the feeling that there will always be something missing deep in my heart and my life, it's you. Whenever the song "In Your Eyes" is played, or I hear anything about "The Terminator" or a paladin, I sip on a chocolate shake with jimmies, see cheese balls, whenever I drive through Mt Kisco, route 22 in Pawling, whenever I try my best to make it through hearing "Silent Night" or try to sing "Amazing Grace" and not give into the overwhelming need to whelp and keen instead of perform, and the name, "Aaron" enters my thoughts, it's you. And you are missed. And you are there. And you are remembered so fondly.