I don’t know what made me look you up, this many years later. 

We weren’t friends—at best I may have merely noticed you; 

at worst I may have laughed when the others said you were weird 

and that you ate paste.

Now that I think about it, maybe the kids made that up 

because kids are mean and that’s what they do. 

Maybe eating paste signifies some sort of nutrient deficiency,

like how craving ice is associated with anemia. 

Or perhaps it tastes good, I don’t know. 

I’d give it a try if it would bring me closer to understanding.

I learned that you died when you were 24.

I think about what I was doing when I was 24:

Anxiety attacks, happy hours with colleagues, a toxic relationship.

Laughter that unearthed me, sadness that swallowed me. 

While I was living my life, you were in the hospital, dying. 

You were not living yours.

I want to remember something about you 

other than your alleged paste-eating. 

Your obituary says you were an avid bowler and that you loved fishing. 

When I was 24, I bowled gutter balls and buried my shame in wine. 

When you were 24, your parents buried you in the ground 

and were never the same again.

I hope you had people in your life who felt the lights dim 

when you left a room. I hope you laughed until your stomach hurt 

and cried until your pillow was soaked.

Life is hard for kids like you. I know that now. 

It’s been hard for me too—maybe in different ways, maybe not. 

When I go back to fourth grade in my mind, I smile at you. 

I ask you to play during recess. I sit next to you in the cafeteria 

and we talk about bowling and fishing and paste. 

You ask me if I want to try some and I say yes, but not now.

Let’s not rush into things, I say.

We have our whole lives ahead of us.