BRATTLEBORO — I was 7 years old, pulling back my bow in the yard, an arrow knocked into the string and about to let loose into the target my father had built for me. I made a decent shot and looked up to see my neighbor standing in his yard and looking down. Robert Awad had a wide honest smile, and the sun glowed down onto his bright white hair.
“Nice form!” he said.
With these simple words of affirmation began one of the closest relationships I have ever had with another human being.
It was strange, a 52-year-old man spending time alone with a 7-year-old boy who wasn't part of his family and had met in such a random way. I was curious when my father would walk into Bob's house unannounced and silent in the first year, and Bob's casual reaction to the procedure.
Years later, I would understand the fear of what was going on behind those walls, the worry any sensible parent would have had. But as unusual as the situation was, Bob's interests could not have been more sound.
It's difficult to say how much Bob had the qualities I yearned for in adults around me, or to what degree I formed those values from being so close with him. He was a strong man, but emotionally available, unafraid to speak honestly and frankly about any subject. It was all out on the table, and nothing was taboo.
In contrast to the strict administration at my private religious school, questioning things was invited. He had strong views but remained open to new ones, and our excitement in speaking about ideas was symbiotic and contagious. There would be times when we would speak for hours, delving deep into spiritual topics that other adults shied away from, and there would sometimes be hours when we wouldn't say a word, enjoying that sacred silence that only two people who truly understand each other earn and treasure.
* * *
Bob was someone who had gone through a number of changes over the years, and he would often talk about the path he had taken. He spoke openly about regrets and victories alike, letting me know that the happy person he was now had come from a long process of trying this and that. It helped to break the illusion so many children have, that becoming an adult was something that suddenly happened, like a caterpillar changing into a butterfly. I started to understand that adulthood was an uphill journey, not a door you magically got to open on one of your birthdays.
“Joel,” he would say. “A lot of people are going to ask you what you want to do when you grow up. People will put pressure onto you. I didn't know what I wanted to do until I was in my thirties. You might not figure it out 'til then or even later, but you'll get there.”
It was so stark, the difference between this man and my own grandparents. I was always afraid of their expectations, the lie they had been told that they were never good enough, a lie that leaked down from generation to generation, holding us back. Here was another man, who had also seen The Great Depression, who knew what it was to be hungry and struggling yet still managed to value happiness over monetary success. My health and happiness were paramount.
* * *
When my teenage years came, Bob and I grew apart. I think I grew apart from everything, trying to explore this and that with my newfound freedom, experimenting with some things that worked out and a lot that didn't.
He tried to let me know that my parents' separation was probably going to end in divorce and I should have believed him. Soon after it ended, my mother was with someone new, someone I would not have ever looked up to even were it not for the awkwardness of him replacing my father. We all moved together into a new house, Bob wasn't my neighbor anymore, and a new chapter of my life was beginning.
The visits became more sparse, and my life became more troubled. I kidded myself into thinking that male role models weren't important to me, yet I still craved them. The men that I latched onto failed me many times over. It seemed as if any man who made it to a position of authority was bound to abuse it in the worst way.
I became lost, stumbled, and hurt. I pretended it was acceptable to feel that way, that losing hope in others was part of getting older. I went on through my twenties trying and failing to claim my own adulthood.
I gave up the dysfunctional relationship. I started putting discipline into the things that mattered to me, that gave to me instead of robbing me.
* * *
Now I am in my thirties. Just as Bob was when things started to get some clarity for him.
I'm finally putting things in order to start my own business and realize dreams I've been too afraid to pursue in the past.
And now, I am finally feeling proud enough to go back to Bob and tell him, “I'm a man now. I'm working harder than I ever have to become the man I want to be.”
It will be so much better than it was when I dropped by his house in my twenties, feeling embarrassed by my life and defensive to a world that had hurt me deeply. I decide to start by writing him a long letter.
When I look up his mailing address online, I instead find his obituary.
The fact that I had randomly been talking about him all week, that I was traveling to Worcester that day already, and that I found that his service was happening the very same day when I looked up his information for the first time in five years - none of this seems strange to me.
I simply shut the computer, sit down at my kitchen table and weep in utter grief and regret: for letting too much time pass, for the loss of my mentor, knowing we will never joke or break bread or be able to choose to be silent with each other ever again.
When I was a child and my family was intact, we would hold each others' hands and pray every night before we ate, “Never take for granted the gift of life.”
The prayer hits me like a tidal wave.
* * *
I arrive to Bob's service rushed, underdressed, and among strange people I've never met. But I am overjoyed to see other faces from the past, to make connections and share time with those like his wife and her son, and to meet his children and also tell them my story.
I slowly walk to his casket and look at the quiet face of a man who took me into his life and showed me infinite love, which I never would have been able to thank him for had he a lived a thousand years.
The truth is that none of us know what we are doing. It's so scary many men walk out and leave. Or sometimes they stay physically and detach emotionally to such a degree it's like they're not even in the room.
What Bob was for me was someone who was present, honest, and listened to me regardless of how either of us were feeling. He wasn't always in a great mood, and neither was I. The deep sadness that hit me when I was just a boy was too much for most adults to handle.
But my feelings were never scary to Bob. I was accepted, and I was safe. And that was all I really needed.
* * *
I haven't come out of the chrysalis and turned into something different, something magical. There is no door. There is just this path, and I will fumble on it.
But I will get up. I will press forward and do whatever I need to in order to realize the man I want to be.
I'm not sure anymore if there is an afterlife, the one Bob and I used to talk so much about. But I do know for sure that he is still alive, inside of me and the others he showed love to.
When I forgive myself, readjust, move on, and persevere over adversity, I can still see that wide smile. I feel his warm hug before I walk through his garden and back to where it all began.
Dusk softly washes the two yards into one, and I am home again.