Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow

There's something about that first snowfall of the year. For whatever reason, my brother and I were both up at 3am when the first flakes began to fall. I stayed up all night watching the pinkish grey hue of dawn arrive. I'm not sure whether it was my fatigue or simply the stillness of the morning, but suddenly I found myself at some strange level of peace I haven't felt in years. I felt like a child on Christmas eve, anticipating morning with all of the excitement and hope in the world. I felt happy and calm and in control of my life. It was as though everything in the universe suddenly became simple, manageable, within reach. Everything in the universe suddenly seemed to be waiting right outside my window.

His name was Andy. I met him on a plane ride from Kalamazoo to Chicago. He walked on the plane, looked around, and came over and sat next to me as though it were the first day of school and he was selecting someone to be his new best friend. I was honored and in utter awe of his ability to disregard the rules of assigned seating. He placed his guitar in the overhead compartment and slumped down in the window seat beside me, the gaping holes in his pants widening as he attempted to get comfortable. When the man whose ticket matched the seat approached, Andy simply smiled and said "hey man, is it cool if I snag this seat from ya?" The man looked slightly confused and then shrugged his shoulders and walked away. Immediately I knew I loved Andy.

He talked to me about everything, asking about my life, telling me all about his. I'm normally very shy in these kinds of situations, but there was something about his dirty clothes and grungy bandanna that put me right at ease. He wasn't a fellow student, but a manifestation of the kind of bohemian lifestyle I've always dreamed of living. I could instantly tell that he was a kindred spirit. He told me all about his music, his travels, his various lousy jobs that he worked until he was going to manage to "hit it big." I imagined his guitar was probably the only luggage he had. Possibly the only possession he had. I loved that.

Part of me wanted to just look at him and say "Andy, when we get off this plane, I'm coming with you." But I didn't. I couldn't. He walked me to my terminal and shook my hand and thanked me for my company. We wished each other luck in our lives, said goodbye, and then went our separate ways. That was it. I'll never see Andy again. Still, I think about him every once and a while in strange, idle moments when I let my mind wander and he unexpectedly slips in. It's not so much him, but the idea of him. The idea of those forty some odd moments we spent together. I loved his courage, his willingness to turn to the person next to him, who fortunately was me, and just start talking. I guess that never really occurs to me.

I spend so much time questioning myself, praying that I'm not annoying anyone, keeping quiet out of the fear of being disliked. It's then that I think of Andy, and how simple he made friendship seem, how simple he made friendship. Why has it become so difficult for me to remember that? Making friends as an adult really isn't all that different from making friends as a child. You just turn to the person next to you and say "hey! I'm so and so. What's your name?" Maybe some people will be unwilling to respond, but just like when you were six years old, you have to realize those people aren't worth your time. Those people aren't your kindred spirits. Those people aren't Andy.

Part of me will always miss him. I'll always be grateful for the lesson he taught me, the reminder that taking the time to talk to a stranger can change both of your lives drastically. It's the way the surface of water continues to ripple long after the stone has reached the bottom. The effects of our actions stretch further than we could ever imagine, onward and onward throughout the universe. In the pinkish grey hue of dawn you can hear them echoing. Every smile, every hello, every thank you, hanging in the air like the perfectly formed flakes of the first snowfall of the year. My eyes gleam as I watch them cover the cold, hard earth.