You cannot run away from a weakness; you must sometimes fight it out or perish. And if that be so, why not now, and where you stand?
Robert Louis Stevenson
Hidden in an attic, or buried at the back of a storehouse, or tucked away in a cluttered corner of a garage... somewhere, we all have a box of mementos - pieces of memories saved to preserve time gone by. Mine is a small varnished pine box with brass hinges that I made in my seventh-grade wood shop class. I have a lifetime of childhood memories carefully stored there: my first-aid merit badge from Scouts, a brightly colored miniature abacus that was a stocking stuffer from my ninth Christmas, a ticket to a Giants game, and the two photos.
I’ve had many friends so far in my busy life. Calvin and Allen were two good friends from long ago, but they play an important part in my life now, even more than in those distant times. Every few years, I drag the step stool to the highest shelf in the garage and rummage for the pine box. There, between my second-grade report card and a poem written by a high school girlfriend, are the two photos of Calvin and Allen.
They both had so much in common, even though they lived on opposite sides of town. Both came from loving families, with parents proud of their accomplishments. Their every day was filled with the challenges of school, but both were excellent students. They each shared a love for sports, too. In the photo of Allen, he’s standing barefoot on the sidewalk in front of my house, with bat poised, waiting for my sister to pitch the ball. It’s easy to see his total concentration, even though his face is contorted in attempts to see into the bright July sun. Calvin’s game was tennis. Although we were both on the school’s junior varsity team, he was a much better player than I could ever hope to be. They were both friends, and (in a way) they were my heroes.
The last similarity between the two had the greatest impact on their lives and the lives of their families: both became entangled in drug addiction. They must have shared a common fear, a common pain, a common feeling of hopelessness and helplessness - not just them, but their families, because the families shared the pain of their sons’ deaths. My friend Allen died of a heroin overdose at twelve years old. Calvin never saw his twentieth birthday.
Neither would ever experience the satisfaction of looking into the eyes of their bride... or the nervousness of holding the first baby in the delivery room... or their son’s game-winning double, their daughter’s practiced role in the dance recital.
So periodically I bring out the box, dust off the two photos and hope. I hope that somehow I’ve learned the magic formula needed to prevent history from repeating itself with the two children that mean everything to me. I know it takes more than love, but I’m not sure I know the answer. But then, Calvin and Allen’s parents have asked the same question many times. For those of us left, we can only hope that we can make a difference.
David R. Wilkins