August 24th, 2009

Sallie Gregory
Aug 24, 2017 · 4 min read

Eight years ago, August 24th fell on a Monday. It was a stuffy, sunny day at Clemson University where I was starting my sophomore year. I was sitting alone, cross-legged on a beige futon in an apartment I shared with three other girls. My very-2009 LG EnV lit up on the futon beside me. It was my mom calling.

I don’t remember what she said on the phone exactly, but I remember that she used Will’s full name. Maybe she said “Will Beaver died in a car accident” or “Will Beaver was in a car accident and he died.” I’m not sure. But I can still picture the spot on the floor I was staring at. I still have flashes of trying to walk to my room, trying to breathe. I stopped in the hallway and sat down on the ugly blue carpet, sobbing; grasping for any bit of air or reality I could find.

Will Beaver was essentially my family. We didn’t share any blood or relatives or ancestry. But we shared camping trips and beach vacations. We shared games of truth or dare and Clue. We shared ganging up on my real brother, Wil, whenever he was mean to me. That’s why my mom had to say his full name. She had to differentiate to me that it wasn’t my blood-brother Wil who died, but my “other brother” Will Beaver. I knew why she had to do this but I remember that it left a bad taste in my mouth. It made Will feel distant. Impersonal. Like I hadn’t know him at all. But, I did. He was my family.

Will was there for most of what I remember about growing up. Throughout the years, I spent so much time tagging along with Will and Wil. We went exploring. We jumped on trampolines. We climbed through backyard forests and raced way too fast on bikes. Then, when we were “older”, we hid behind trees and smoked rolled up pieces of paper with nothing even in them. We stayed up too late, lying in fields and looking at stars. The conversations had turned from Pogs and nintendo to alcohol and our futures. Once we grew up, when we all got married and had kids, we’d bring our families to these same places. Our kids would play games and we would drink wine. We’d make these same memories, over and over. Forever. That was the plan.

It’s been eight years since that awful Monday. And, as the cliche goes, sometimes it still feels like yesterday. Last week, I was on my way home from work when a song came on shuffle and I started crying in my car. It’s been eight years, and a few lines of a cheesy Kenny Chesney song can still make me cry. Eight years, I remember repeating to myself. Eight years. He’s been gone for so long. I’ve graduated college. I’ve moved half a dozen times. I’ve had my heart really, really broken—and maybe I’ve broken one or two hearts myself. I have traveled often, but also planted roots. I have made a million memories that I would give anything for him to be in. And I realized, crying in my car on a random Wednesday, that it’s possible that I’ve done all of this because of Will.

Will was 22 when he died. He hadn’t graduated from college. He hadn’t figured his life out. He’d barely been anywhere or done anything — like most 22 year olds. I’ve realized recently that this has to do with my restlessness; my need for adventure, my distaste for staying still. Every mountain I climb, every plane ride I take, every town I explore — Will is there with me. I am taking him all of these places because he never got to go. It feels like, very literally, the least I can do. It feels like the best way to honor him is to live every second with thankfulness—even the ones that hurt.

I wish like hell he were here to meet the guys I date and to be my plus one when the guys I date end up sucking. I wish he were here to meet my hypothetical future kids. To be the best man in my brothers hypothetical future wedding. To tag me in stupid dog videos on Facebook and to call me drunkenly at 2 A.M. just to make me laugh. If I were to list all of the things I wanted him around for, I’d be writing forever. And I know all of his family and friends feel the same way. He was a brother, a son, a roommate, a friend. He made us laugh. He drove us crazy. He left a perfectly Will-shaped hole in our lives that nothing and no one will ever fill. The best we can do is remember him, and talk about him. He can’t and won’t be forgotten.

That’s why, in the medicine cabinet of my bathroom, I keep a tiny (and weird) picture of me and Will. It’s an awful picture. It shows my wide eyes and shiny forehead, and then a little bit of Will in the background. He’s not even looking at the camera, but I love this picture. I love it because it captured a moment I might have otherwise forgotten. We have years of posed pictures, of course. We have pictures around camp fires as kids, and smiling and hugging as adults. But this was a memory. This was a couple of teenagers piled in a bed watching Will Ferrell movies and laughing until 3 am. This picture is now what Will was to me then: familiar, comforting, and just a little off the wall.

Eight years down, a lifetime to go. We miss you, Will.

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Sallie Gregory

Coffee | Graphics | Prose | Puppies | Jesus

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