His Face is Very Ugly

I'm back. From my short hiatus.

Before you read on, I want to make something clear. Most of the time, I write this blog to entertain both myself and the readers. That is not the intent of this post. This post is to commemorate something and someone, the most special person I've ever had the pleasure to meet. To expose what I've felt for a long time, but never had the occasion or the courage to say. So, without further preamble, here I go.

You know, my grandmother gave me a watch as a graduation present. It works fine and in my humble opinion, looks great. I'm proud to wear it. There's just one problem. I have no idea how to adjust the date. It currently reads "31," which I assume is meant to be the 31st of July. I read the instruction manual. By "read," I really mean glazed over. I don't care what date it says it is. Maybe I even want to read "31," so in my own little fantasy world I can make myself believe we have a few extra days left.

But I don't, and that fact couldn't have hit closer to home than it did today. Reading my computer screen has never induced the sense of nausea, sadness, and gut-wrenching pain that I felt a few hours ago.

I said I would get straight to the point, didn't I? Beating around the bush has always been a habit of mine. It isn't often that you get an opportunity to write something like this, and here I am going off on random tangents. Focusing on myself rather than him, and what was between us.

Well, if you haven't guessed, this is a post about my best friend, Eric.

"Best friend." What a tired and overused expression. Nonetheless, this is the one and only phrase I can use without completely lying about him.

Eric and I first crossed paths at Haycock Chess Club. I was ranked as a lowly pawn because I had just moved there, and he was among the highest ranked members in the chess club. I was looking for an interesting match, and he agreed to play a game with me.

We drew the first game we ever played. The first of many chess games. The first of many competitive ventures we would go into together. Some as teammates, others as opponents.

But at the end of the day, we always laughed together.

That has to be the defining characteristic of what we had. Laughter. There isn't a minute of conversation without someone letting out a chuckle or breaking out a huge smile. More frequently though, gales of laughter annoy whoever happens to be sitting around us, be it our fellow bus-riders or the people trying to pay attention in German class. When we're together there's a sense of absolute comfort. That, despite what's going on in our lives, we're in a place free from all that.

I once told my friend that I had never argued with Eric. She warned me: "You're overdue then. Get ready for a big fight." She was right, I suppose. We did have our fair share of hard times. But at the end of the day we found the humorous side in everything. Learned to live with our faults, and laugh at our mistakes.

How did this happen? How have we been there with each other, every step of the way? I have no idea. It just seems like every time either one of us contemplates moving in one direction, the other is already there. We share the same interests. Every time one of us acquired a new interest, the other would go along with it. More than just "go along with it." To use that phrase would do injustice to what it was. We learned to love each other's interests. And the fact that we were doing it together? More than just an added bonus, it made it simply amazing to pursue new things. We knew that whatever the outcome, we could do it with each other, laughing the entire time.

Like I said, I met Eric in 6th grade. One of the few friends I still have from that class in Haycock Elementary school. I've spent countless hours with him. And when I think about who I am today, I see him written all over my identity. From the catch phrases that I consistently steal to the happy-go-lucky nature. That's one thing I know for sure. That he has burned himself into who I am forever. And like my watch, I wear that scar with pride.

Scars, as Albus Dumbledore once pointed out, can be useful. He himself claims to have a scar that is a perfect map of the London Underground on his knee. It fulfills a practical need, I suppose. My scar has its own use. It's like ... Eric is there. A part of me. Ready to advise me on how to be the most carefree yet realistic guy on earth. I can always count on it.

The scar isn't the substitute for the real thing, though. I learned recently that in less than a week, we'll have to say goodbye. Eric has never been the emotional type. So I guess we won't break down in tears when we see each other for the last time. It doesn't make it any less sad, or any less special to either of us. We know the occasion. And like every other challenge over the past 6 years, we're ready to take it head on, together.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'll cry. It's just the type of person I am. But along with the tears I shed, I can count on another thing.

I'll be laughing as well.