Rely on the power of remembering

My friend has died; he is away as my grandmother said of death.
Mike and I went to high school together, knew each other almost immediately, and for five years we had many of our classes together and we were friends.
When I heard of Mike’s passing I felt an immediate ache—a real loss, like the air had all gone out of me. And I knew, as we do, that we are of an age when our friends are falling, leaving us behind, obligating us to go on ahead, though no age is safe from loss.
I haven’t seen Mike since we graduated in 1974, but he firmly is tucked away in my memory bank to call on whenever I want to wander around in happy memories of my high school days.
I still remember Mike’s walk, almost on his toes, everything lifted up; but not to be imposing, more of a containment. I remember his grin when we passed in the hall, his eyes narrowing and his shoulders coming up, as though he smiled with his whole body.
His laugh was easy and quick but tied up and came out as an infectious giggle; his eyes joining in as he pushed his glasses back up on his nose.
Mike was never hurried or abrupt. He was quiet, kind, and gentle, and he took refuge in his large navy blue winter parka with the big fur-lined hood. And wherever Mike was, Bill Shine wasn’t far away—a friendship of the extraordinary kind.
We went to Quebec for the Winter Carnival in 1973—a busload of us under the kind supervision of Mr. Quesnel and Mr. von Niebelschutz. It was a great trip and one of the special highlights of my high school days.
While we were there, practising our French in restaurants and attending a French high school that seemed in a different universe from our own, we mastered the toboggan races “sur la glace” and I’m not sure I have ever laughed any harder.
We posed with Monsieur Bonhomme for photos and tried to get service in a bar (without success despite striking our most nonchalant of poses) in Lower Town (Basse-Ville), the old part of Quebec City.
But mostly we had fun, talking late into the night on the bus ride home, talking of our plans when the unthinkable would happen—when we would have to grow up.
Mike said he never wanted to leave Fort Frances. Neither did I.
When I looked at the photo of Mike with his obituary, I knew one thing for certain: Mike lived a happy life. The laugh that had perhaps once been contained had found freedom and I’m certain that sound will buoy up all those who loved him; who called him brother, friend, whose lives were marked by him.
I’m so glad I shared time on this Earth with Michael Dale Shute, so glad our paths went side by side for a time.
The world is a little quieter, a little more somber without him, but our power of remembering helps keep it all right.
wendistewart@live.ca