six years ago, today

I was heading into Play Group at Ars Nova when my phone rang and it was my Home and I immediately knew something was wrong. At that point both little brostetters were deployed, and I’d had a couple of strange dreams recently about little brostetter Tim, in particular. Tim and I shared a room growing up, and even then, with him sleeping on the bunk below me, I used to have this recurring dream that he was being chased, or in danger, or that he was missing, have I already shared this? I have probably already shared this. Point being, I weirdly just knew.

Me: Hiwhat’sWrong?

A pause that lasted approximately ninety seven years.

Dad: Tim’s been shot.

Then, a pause that lasted approximately one hundred and ninety seven million years.

Dad: …But he’s going to be okay.


Once assured that he was fine, and was being taken the hospital, and that Dan was flying in from AfghanisDAN and meeting him there, once general fears were allayed, I went into Ars, where I saw my at that point fairly newish friend and other playwright, Dylan, and then I immediately burst into tears and he hugged me, basically cementing our friendship forever.

This is just a tiny, fairly undramatic slice of a memory. No one died, everyone is alive and well. But I will never. Never. Ever ever ever ever forget it, because for the tiniest of seconds, I thought I’d lost Tim, and I will never stop being grateful, every stinking day, that he is still here.

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