PART 7 - Letters To No One

Part 7 - Letters To No One

To Whom it May Concern,

   One of my most bittersweet memories and most profound lessons was from a young boy who died at the age of 12.  Many, many years ago, when I lived in Laguna Beach with my friend Jim Eady, our neighbors across the street were a family with three sons.  Seneca was the youngest, a sweet, joyous boy with an unmistakable gapped toothed smile.
   There was something about Seneca that made him stand out.  He was all boy: playful, inquisitive, passionate and loved baseball above all else.  He used to come over to my house when Jim was at work and grill me on the items that were part of the decor.  This was the 1980's, and Jim's being a flaming gay man was the curiosity of the neighborhood, especially to a young boy who needed to know what set big gay Jim apart from the rest of the world.
   Seneca  would pick up random items in the house, study them closely and then ask me, " Is this a gay guy thing? "  For the most part, almost all of my answers were yes, and most of those times, the boy would scrutinize what he was looking at, nod in agreement and laugh like hell.
   When Seneca was 11, his mother found a lump on his leg that turned out to be an invasive, fatal form of cancer.  All medical and sad details aside, when his family told him he was sick, he told them how he wanted to do what was left of his life, down to the very last detail.
   He even planned his own funeral, ending it with all attending singing the Star Spangled Banner, which, to Seneca, meant a baseball game was starting - a baseball game he just knew he would be playing in.
   As Seneca became sicker and his capacities became  limited, the people of Laguna donated money to the family to send the boy to India with his mother to meet a holy man.  (His name eludes me at this time)
   When they came back, something had changed.  Seneca was different.  Yes, he was still gravely ill, but somehow it wasn't what you saw when you looked at him.  There was a peace, a resignation, even a grace about him that defied description.  At this point, he could no longer walk and his parents set him up in the living room, in the center of it all, so he could see and be a part of everything that was going on.  Each of the neighbors and friends took turns watching him when his parents or brothers were out.
   On a day it was my turn to relieve his mother to run errands, I sat down on the floor next to him and asked him how he was doing.  I told him he seemed different, almost happy.
 "  God talked to me,"  he told me.   I asked him what God said.
   "  He really didn't say anything, "  Seneca explained.   " He just asked me 2 questions."
   "  The first one was ' How did you treat the people who loved you? '
     and the second one was ' Did you have fun? '
   Before I had time to process what I had just heard, that unmistakeable gapped tooth smile radiated from his face.  "  I did good, " he told me.  " I made him proud and did what I was put here to do.  It's O.K. now. "
   Seneca died a few weeks later, but he knew.  In just those 2 questions, he had the answers and the secret to a life well lived and he had passed them on to me. 

   I never forgot Seneca and the lesson he had taught me.  Death was not a scary, doom ladened thing to someone who lived life as it was intended to be lived, who embraced love and joy above all else.
   So, when it first sunk in when I had heard my brother had died, I thought of Seneca and those 2 questions.  And, between my tears and sorrow, was a smile and that certainty.  Because Gary knew, too.