By Mike Travis
Editor in Chief
It was a beautiful midsummer day in Rome. The sun was shining, without a cloud in the sky. The temperature was just right. I had just spent the past two months traveling all over Europe in what was one of the best experiences of my life.
On top of that, this particular day was my 21st birthday. My girlfriend and I had spent most of the morning scootering around town on the little Vespa that we had rented, going from the Vatican to various museums and back, all the while trying to avoid the Italian policemen toting submachine guns.
It was getting later in the afternoon, and dinnertime was quickly approaching. We decided to go back to the hotel for a few minutes to get ready for the evening.
It was then that I decided to call home, and it was then that my life changed forever.
My mom picked up the phone. I said “hello” and was expecting some kind of happy birthday greeting, but instead she had a serious tone.
“Are you sitting down?” she said.
As I sat down on the bed, my anxiety began to rise.
“Your friend Pete was in a car accident this afternoon and was killed.”
The news took a few seconds to sink in. Peter was my best friend, like a brother to me since high school. His death was something I never would have considered in a million years. As my whole body rejected the idea in a spasm of pain and sickness, I could only think to shout one word. No.
I had been planning to stay in Europe for two more weeks, but instead I headed straight for the train station that very hour. I was going home.
On the airplane, reality began to sink in. My best friend, my only real friend in the world, was not going to be there when I got back. This sick feeling in the pit of my stomach wouldn’t go away. Our kids would never play together. He wasn’t going to be the best man at my wedding. The future was erased because of a senseless accident.
I remembered the last time I’d talked to him. It was the only time that I talked to him on my entire trip, one month earlier.
The conversation was brief, because I thought he’d be there when I got back. We didn’t talk about much, just general things that people talk about in an everyday conversation.
“Hey dude,” I said.
“How’s it going, man,” was his easy reply.
“Awesome. The culture is totally different here and I’m learning how to speak Deutch,” I said, going on to explain some of my latest adventures.
“Well, call me again soon,” he said. “We’ll party when you get back.”
I didn’t call him again. And I never heard from him again either.
As I remembered this final conversation I thought about all the things I could have said if I had known that it was the last time we’d ever speak.
I would have told him that he was the only true friend I had. That I’d be there to back him up no matter what. That I respected him more than I respected anyone in the world. That I actually thought of him as a real brother.
I always thought I’d have time to say these things, because I always thought that Pete would be there. Now all that I had was a small hope that he knew how I felt — and that didn’t feel very good.
It was at that time I made a promise to myself to never let something like that happen again. Never again would stupid pride or embarrassment get in the way of expressing my feelings.
I realized that there were a lot of people in my life who I hadn’t told how important they were to me. Everyday people like my mom, my dad, my sister and my grandparents. The list grew pretty long after I thought about it for awhile.
I had a lot of explaining to do to a lot people.
When I got back home, I gave the eulogy at Pete’s funeral. It was a tough thing to do, and the only hope that I had was that everyone in attendance realized how good of a friend he was to me, and what a great person he was. I also remembered to tell everyone that was important to me how much I cared. It felt good to see how much impact a few small words can have on someone that you see every day.
The death of my best friend and the nagging feeling of regret that came along with it are two things that will stick with me for the rest of my life. Although almost two years have passed since that fateful day, sometimes it still feels like yesterday. I doubt I’ll ever forget what happened.
And on those days when the memories come back to visit me, I will be reminded of the quintessential lesson that I learned a moment too late — relationships are priceless, and expressing how valuable they are is even more so.
March 20, 2003
