Ever since the passing of my friend, Joshua Barbour, my eyes have clung onto water of all types and sizes—lakes, lagoons, ponds, seas and streams. Is it out of desperation? A never-ending search for an answer? I don’t know.
What can I say when someone I knew, chatted with, and got into a car with departs from Earth in an unimaginable manner? I found out he passed before I had to go on to teach 8th graders. I remember scanning their expressive faces with hazy eyes.
My mind replays his distinct car disappearing in a patch of blue, and I feel heartbroken.
I was 3 hours away from where his funeral took place. I’ve watched his vigil, but I can’t get the closure my spirit needs. I’ve prayed and talked to friends, but now what? How could a river so beautiful and captivating now morph into an eerie, horrifying place?
I’ve spent time with friends by that river, made memories, took photos and now the sight of it only brings one person to mind. I’ve tried to forget, ignore it, but I can’t. And I realize it’s okay to feel the sadness, pain, and despair of it all.
My birthday came and went. He was laid to rest. I’m supposed to move on. After all, he had people closer to him who hurt a thousand times more than me. But that doesn’t change how I feel.
Something did stand out when I watched his vigil. I heard someone say, “We have to live for Josh”. .
For a few days, I wondered what that meant and looked like. I came up with an answer: living for my deceased friend means being extremely honest with myself and others. It means saying things that linger in the corners of my mind and heart. Living for my deceased friend means having fun, no matter what, and spending more time with friends and family.
Josh taught me more things while he was still here. He taught me how to let go of grudges, make amends – and, if you can’t, just love people with all their flaws. Josh showed me how to speak up for myself when I feel the need to do so. He taught me to travel wherever I want to, and to go however far I want. I learned from him how to set goals that I don’t think I can achieve at the moment – but setting them, anyway. Finally, he taught me to pray more – for the good, bad, large, and small.
While I’m terrified of dying at any moment, I don’t want to waste my last breath on fear and sadness.
I want to be certain that, when I die, I lived all I could, laughed my lungs empty, and loved deeply – just as Josh had.
Josh was kind, funny, and ensured that I and others made it back to our destinations safely. I thanked him when he was alive, but I don’t think I did it enough.
So thank you, Josh. I hope the afterlife has pretty sunsets just like Oswego does.
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