On Sunday afternoon we got word that my classmate, whom I was good friends with in high school, was killed Sunday morning. He was riding on his motorcycle when an elderly woman driving home from church carelessly failed to yield and hit him head on. He was wearing a helmet, but it didn't matter. One of his last posts on Facebook in May read "Bought a Harley today. It's gonna be a crazy summer."
He's the second person from my graduating class to have died so far, following another young man a few years ago. He was 25.
During high school, we spent a lot of time together toiling in French and yearbook class, he came to my church often and sat with my family, and he dated one of my best friends for a long time. He came to our wedding, too. I hadn't talked to him in quite awhile, thanks to the usual excuses of time and distance and opportunity, and for that I am regretful.
I wish I possessed the eloquence to state the big things that should be stated at a time like this. Grand overtures about our fleeting time on earth and the fragility of life and the tragedy of death, especially young death, but I don't have the words. All I can say is, he will be missed by a lot of people, and I wish it didn't have to turn out this way. It's incomprehensible.