J.R. RIP

Whatever I was going to write tonight has been blasted away by news. A dear friend from grad school ("J") just lost her son (I'll call him JR). JR had been a big part of my grad school memories. J came the year after my cohort, entering a PhD fresh from a divorce and with a three-year-old in tow. Over my years there, I watched JR go from squalling little one to talking little one. I watched J, a brilliant scholar and one of the most powerful performers I've ever seen, juggle the impossible tasks of single motherhood and PhD work.

Through it all, J's love for JR was constant, a source of strength for her and--vicariously--for all of us around them. I have no words, only memories crowding in.

I remember load-in for some show we were working on, J driving and JR in a car seat in back. "I'm gonna fwoh up," he wailed.

"Oh, JR," she crooned to him, "just hold on. We're nearly there." "He gets carsick," she explained to the rest of us passengers, "but he never really--"

JR coughed and then vomited.

"Whoops," she said. "Oh, JR, I'm sorry. I thought you were just feeling sick like normal. I didn't think you'd actually throw up."

"But I did, mommy," he observed, "I did."

JR had a knack for memorable lines. J would regale us with his latest. "Today," she laughed once, "JR looked at me, shook his head, and said, 'You have old legs, mommy. Old legs.'" We all cackled at that.

As I left grad school and saw J at conferences over the years, she would update me with JR's progress: pictures, reports, and sometimes JR himself in tow. On one of those latter occasions, time she boasted that JR had gotten his first email address. JR, a preteen now shy in front of this stranger who knew him ages ago, blushed. When JR stepped away for a moment, J leaned in. "Would you do me a favor? Could you send JR a message by email? He doesn't know many people with email yet except for his old mother. I know he'd be thrilled." I sent him the email. I know I have it somewhere in the endless archives.

JR grew tall and handsome, entered college. J fretted about girlfriends.

I just can't believe he's gone. It's not like we were incredibly close. But he's been a consistent beat in the occasional music of my life for over twenty years. Knowing that beat is gone makes the music sadder.

And J. Oh, J. She adored him. Her first conference away from him, I was on the flight back home with her. We got off the plane, and she walked as quickly as she could toward the exit. Once through the doors, we hear, "Mommy!" JR awaited her. J. drops her bags and runs--runs--to him, sweeping him up in her arms, beaming at being reunited with him.

That image imprinted itself in my memory as a picture of parental love second only to my own parents.

Lord of lost children and grieving parents, have mercy. Bring presence and comfort. Gather JR into your arms. Enfold J in care and support. Let the memory of J and JR's delight and love inspire more.

JF