I remember the shock I felt that first time you fell ill. You could barely even talk. You just lied in bed, so pale and so -- almost as if you weren't there at all. You tried to smile, to make me feel better, and spent what few words you had on consoling me. I couldn't express what a blow it was for me. It was like realizing my god was only mortal. I ran around to your professors for you, and got what things you needed. I had to stay busy. We didn't talk about anything outside of schoolwork. It was the first time that we didn't share what was on our minds. I simply couldn't handle your being sick. You recovered slowly, but steadily, from an illness that didn't have a name. Three weeks later I never would have guessed you'd been sick at all. You were driving on through your usual load of activities without letting up. I did the best I could to make that month disappear from my memory. Funny, that's the one memory I couldn't lose. You didn't like it when I slipped into denial, though you never said so. I'll admit it made it infinitely harder on me later.

We camped out in each other's rooms more often than not. We just fell asleep somewhere in the middle of our discussions, doing homework, or just listening to the music in your varied collection. I could never keep a girlfriend for long. They got jealous of you after a week or two. I can't blame them. It was hard for me to stay away from you for long, and none of them were captivating enough to keep my undivided attention. Conversely, you mystified me. How someone like you could exist was beyond my comprehension. Any topic that came up in conversation, you knew volumes about. You memorized chapters of books faster than I could flip through a Playboy. When you argued, it was with a passion that could have convinced anyone that you new the subject firsthand. I wondered if you did. Your writing was amazing. Words flowed effortlessly from your fingers, and I know you rarely edited anything. Your poetry was told from a view I'd never seen before, and it had so many layers. All of the aspects of the world were somehow melded into one: spirit, space, flesh, fate, light, time, and idea. It was the way you saw the world -- unified. The emotions that you so rarely felt were foremost in your writing; they were so pure. I still read a few every night. I wrote a poem for you. It's not as good as yours, but here it is:

I'll just leave it here for you.

I brought you a peony, too. I know they're your favorite. I miss you. The last year we had together was the hardest. You kept getting sick. The first couple times I distanced myself again. I truly regret that I did. I know it was my fear of losing you, but I should have cherished what time I could get. I guess that's too much to expect of the average college guy. You certainly didn't, though you hoped that I'd come to terms sooner than I did. I saw it in your eyes -- I pretended that I didn't. You tried to share more of your work with me, but I wouldn't listen until it was nearly too late. I was too stubborn. When I finally came around, I was at your bedside nonstop. You couldn't say much, but I collected together the things of yours that you wanted me to keep. I held your hand, watching you fade into a shadow. I could barely speak a work without breaking into tears then. I'm having trouble now, but I do want to get through it, for both of us. Your eyes slowly lost that insightful lustre that unnerved me so often. Its eventual absence scared me more than anything else that had happened. You were suddenly real instead of the angel I'd always imagined you as. Maybe you did get your wish to be normal at the end. I hope that you finally got the peace that eluded you.

I was at a loss in the months after your death. I was nearly nonfunctional during the seven-week mourning period that I observed. After that I was able to get through a daily routine, but it was a long road back to being able to involve myself in social situations. I didn't really dig into the things you left me until a year later. I couldn't bring myself to do it until then.

Since then I've gone through your things hundreds of times. The topics of your writing were absolutely astounding, especially in the variety of the scope. Some of the papers were projections of the future that have proved so accurate that I've just been floored. I thought some of those were fiction pieces you wrote for fun until they started coming true. Others were in-depth analyses of people from your life or the public eye. Most of those I couldn't verify, but certainly do make sense, and the rest have been shown remarkably true except for minor details. The technical papers I had to find help for because I certainly don't have a doctorate in science. The person I had read them about had a heart attack and immediately bombarded me with questions. I was heartbroken to tell him that you had died years before, but the hints you gave kept him and many of his colleagues quite happily busy for the rest of their lives. I've made sure your contributions to science won't be forgotten. Your name is inextricably tied to the initial theories they were and still are working at developing.

So many people came to me in the year after your death. I didn't realize how many people you knew. They each told me their stories about you. You'd told them it was important to do that. They were the people you had found and helped. So many of their testimonies spoke of how they had given up on themselves and life before they met you. All of them said that you gave them an amazing hope for themselves and the future. You helped them work through problems, whether they were mental, physical, or situational. You let them go once they had goals, a clear path to attaining them, and the drive to follow through. You kept in touch with them until your last month, too.

I recorded all their testimonies, and every five years I sent them each a copy of their own. I wasn't going to forget you, and I was going to be sure no one else did, either. Mary was a quiet girl who was heavily abused throughout her childhood. She turned to drugs and abusive relationships. When you found her she was about to kill herself. You helped her through rehab and counseling. You found a safe place for her to stay. She's a renowned architect now, designing safe places for hundreds of people. Diante was a gang member about two fights away from a bullet through his head. He owns a chain of car repair shops as well as runs an inner-city youth center. Jason was just an average, depressed freshman. You found the fire in him, challenged him to expand his horizons. He was a Supreme Court judge until just recently. I could go on, but you know all their stories. The ones that are still alive remember you. Their children and colleagues know who you were and what you did. Your wouldn't believe the number of buildings, parks, and memorials out there that bear your name. I know you'd be embarrassed if I told you. I keep a scrapbook of them all. All of those people you helped have passed along your gift. It was the least I could do to remind them once in awhile of the things they had to be thankful for.

Maybe you had a feeling I'd remember you when others would be quick to forget. I was determined that I'd never lose any more of you than I had to. Your life was already taken away, and I was going to be damned before I'd let your memories go, too. I think you had a streak of rebellion, too. You didn't want to just fade away like you were supposed to. Well, your last experiment worked, and I hope I've proved it to your satisfaction. The names of the ones behind the scenes, who build the ones who make a difference in the world, can survive. I hope I surprised you for once. Remember, I love you, Aristel.


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