Spring Break of our freshman year and you say, “Fall like this.” You crumple in your snow pants, toss your ski poles to the side. You say, “Go limp,” and you do first. I’ve never skied before, but I am willing to follow you down the icy slopes, burn my cheeks, lose the feeling in my fingers. Your parents’ cabin is close, and within an hour, under your mom’s watchful eye, we’ll pull out the required reading. We have to reach the Lotus Eaters by the time we return to school.
You would die later.
The fall was too far.
(I guess we were hardly even friends then,
though everyone claimed you.)
One night, you climbed a mountain
of scaffold in Holland, Michigan and then you fell.
We’d gone to separate colleges,
but we’d been there together too.
Once. Hope College. Seventh grade soccer camp.
Overflowing our trays with salads
and chicken parmesan because there was no one
to tell us no. Sun-burned and sore, broken-toed
and we filled our cups
with orange pop at the fountain.
No one said not to.
No one checked curfew
so we stayed up half the night.
You fell some time after.
When I admit I’m scared of the slope you say,
“Just hum your favorite song.”
I hum the R.E.M. song that sounds like Christmas.
There is ice there, but I don’t find it till I fall
(And not the way you taught me, but the way that hurts).
It is not steep, but there are moguls there.
My arm slips from the socket.
Student Dies in Fall from Scaffolding.
President Bultman issued this statement: “We mourn the tragic death of Paul X. He was a beloved student full of so much promise for the future. Our thoughts and prayers are with his parents, Mark and Katie, and sister, Katrina. Paul was a fifth generation Hope College student. Both parents are Hope graduates. He was active
in campus student life, serving as an officer of his fraternity. He was a member of the soccer team his freshman year. This summer he was working at a Holland area restaurant. The service will be held Tuesday, July 25, at 10 a.m., at Aldersgate United Methodist Church, in Fort Wayne, Ind.”
We bought up all the decks of cards in the souvenir store. There’s a picture of our house before the collapse. You in your red Hawaiian shirt and me off camera. We are snow-burned and blistered and we’ve barely even skied. We built for three hours and when I came back from the bathroom—stopping to admire the gathering snow—I return to your mess. And you’re there, heaving on the floor, laughing among the splayed cards.
Members of Paul’s fraternity issued this statement:
The tragic loss of a dear friend is something very difficult to deal with, but Paul X will forever live on in our hearts. Paul had the unique ability to touch and connect with everyone he met. That speaks volumes to his character. He was a confident individual who knew exactly who he was. His one of a kind laugh, quirky humor and unforgettable smile are some characteristics that made up his personality. His love for the outdoors allowed Paul to experience new things and face new challenges. He was a strong man with a soft heart. Paul found a way to brighten every day and put other people before himself. Paul was an engineering major who loved being active as well. One could find him on the Frisbee golf course, at the soccer field, skiing down a mountain or simply hanging out and being the great friend he was. Paul was a serving officer of the fraternity and an excellent leader. Undoubtedly he will be missed and our sympathies go out to his family and anyone who had the privilege to meet him. Memories of Paul will forever be engrained in our hearts and minds. This loss is troublesome, but the memories of such a great man will help carry on the legacy of Paul X for all of time.
One night home from college and your sister is my waitress.
“How’s Paul?” I ask.
“Back home!” she says. “You should drop by and say hello.”
I drop by to say hello.
Only I drop by your old house.
The woman who lives there is kind and takes me inside.
“I have their new number around here somewhere,” she mutters.
She digs through a drawer of pencils and rubber bands.
She doesn’t find your number, but she points me up a hill in the direction
where she thinks your family’s moved.
The next summer, at your funeral,
we share stories about the last time we saw you.
“The last time I saw him, I didn’t,” I admit.
It’s not what people want to hear.
One day I teach The Odyssey to a ninth grade classroom.
Odysseus has already left, and we’re already on the roof with Elpenore—
The poor drunk who climbs and falls.
My kids think it’s hilarious.
—“Who gets drunk and falls off a roof?”—
I tell them your name. I say you were a friend, once, long ago.
(But not so much toward the end).
I say we went skiing when we were their age.
Built a card house. Read The Odyssey just like them.
The kids shut up. It is the first and only time.
I read from the book:
By their own follies they perished, the fools.
But I really don’t mean it like that.
