We lost one of the good ones today. Matt Freeman, Captain, USMC, my dear friend--and friend, brother, son, husband to others--was killed on the ground in Afghanistan.
I still don't know the exact circumstances of his death, and I can't seem to get my head around the fact that he's gone. The last time I saw him was two years ago, at Amy's funeral in Savannah, and now the last time I may see him will be at his own funeral.
Nothing in life prepares you for this, prepares you to start losing the people you love before they turn thirty. I am taking turns feeling stunned, devastated, angry, and empty.
Yes, it had been awhile since we talked, and longer since we had seen one another, but I always felt like Matt was close, like we could pick up where we left off in a second. He was one of those people who would (will) always be important in my life. First and foremost, he was one of my closest friends throughout high school, someone I felt like I could tell pretty much anything and never be judged, which is nothing short of monumental at that age. He could always be counted on for a great conversation, for a laugh, and well, for anything else for which you might need him.
For a time it was more complex than that--he has actually appeared on this blog before, in my very first post, the friend who kissed me beside the pond when I was wearing a gold prom dress. Even though it turned out to be relatively brief, he became one of my first serious relationships, and it helped me to understand what a mature, respectful romantic relationship should be like (as opposed to my previous experiences with what turned out to be a complete scumbag). It ended due to indecision on my part, but somehow we still remained friends--and not just in name, but actual friends.
I remember long, lazy days in the sun at the beach, running back to his parents' beach house to escape afternoon thundershowers. There were late nights in various locations, groups of us sitting up and talking, scheming, planning to change the world. There was drama class and drama club, various plays and rehearsals, field trips and hilarity. There were the days we'd just run around town aimlessly, and then he'd drive me home, speeding like a madman in his teal Geo Metro around that sharp bend on Highway 144, racing to get me back in time for curfew. Later there were oyster roast reunions, where everything had changed for everyone, but somehow it all felt the same. I feel like I don't do it justice, but my memories of high school are memories with Matt. He was part of me growing up, and his friendship likely deeply affected who I became. I am having a hard time understanding that that is where he will have to remain from this day forward--in the past.
Those who know my left-leaning tendencies will understand why I am mad. There's also the greater existential anger--why the hell is it always the best people, the people with the most to offer, who die?
I guess that I should take comfort in the fact that he died doing what he wanted to do. I mean, hell, I am actually hugely impressed at how much Matt really lived in his twenty-nine years. He'd not only traveled all over the world, but he flew a lot of it himself. He worked his ass off and ended up with the job of his dreams--flying planes for the military--and in fact, he had one of the coolest-sounding jobs of anyone I have known. No matter where he went, he still found ways to stay close to his family. He found love (well, rediscovered might be more like it) with his wife, Theresa. A lot of people don't achieve all this in fifty to sixty years, let alone fewer than thirty.
But still, I mourn. I am sad that he won't be a parent--because he probably would have been a fantastic dad. The thought of what his family is going through makes me break down in tears. The realization that we'll never again reconnect on the phone or catch up during a trip home...well, it makes me feel like my youth is dead. And while I know that in the end we will honor his sacrifice in the name of service to country, tonight I feel like my country stole my friend from me. Call me an anti-patriot, but we're all entitled to our various stages of grief.
Matt had a better attitude than I do; in fact, I'm sure he would have argued heatedly with me over the above sentiment. When I spoke with his mom tonight, she said "I talked to him on the phone the other day, and he told me that he was happy that he was finally doing what he wanted to do. And he asked for us to send more pens and paper, things like that, because he said 'Each one of these that I hand out is one less person shooting at me.'" He believed he was helping change the world. I'm positive that he did help change the world. I just wish he was still here to help it continue to evolve for good.
This post is scattered, unfocused, poorly-constructed. I am unable to properly harness words to best convey what I am feeling tonight, so I'll lay it to rest with words from the Bard, from one of the plays Matt loved dearly: "Good night, sweet prince: And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."
