The friendship was never taken for granted, but time was. Time and its inevitable, vexing laments after great losses such as this to dull the pain of our incurable, addictive naïveté. These laments? The promises and pronouncements of renewed focus we lie to ourselves about, those quickly discarded as day-to-day grinds resume and survival necessities lead to mourning’s denouement, then repeat when tragedy and heartbreak strike yet again.
I thought we would meet again as we had met before in a Dublin pub or on a Mediterranean beach or on a pitch in Austin. There would be added time for any of those moments. And more.
The seemingly invincible are meant to live forever despite the arduous reminders of other realities increasing in frequency as we age. I keep losing friends.
When will it be my turn to make someone bury a face in a pillow to sob as fists slam against a cold tile floor? That was the scene here today when I learned that another pivotal person in my life’s story was gone.
Matt Lankes and I began as soccer rivals, then became friends. We never had an argument, on or off the field, which surely must be considered a mathematical improbability considering my younger (or current?) temperament.
The photo here is from 2016 in Austin. It was another great day shared. We had thirty years; I thought we would have thirty more. But time waits for no one.
Talented and jovial with an eternal smile, he was one of the good ones. One of the best ones. Better than me at everything.
And as the world willingly plunges itself into WWIII, I wonder how many people like Matt Lankes remain to stop it.