Bangarang
My mother introduced me to Peter Pan when I was six-years-old. I fell in love with the 1960 production of Peter Pan starring Mary Martin. She would dig up the VHS and put it on for me and I'd watch it over and over again until I was sure that the VCR would break from excessive rewinding. I remember staying home from school, hours spent on the couch sipping flat ginger ale through a plastic straw and eating canned chicken and stars soup. These are some of my happiest memories.
Not only was I enthralled with the magic of a never-world far away, full of swashbuckling pirates and mermaids, but also with a mischievous boy who was charming and adventure ensued wherever he went. The fact that Peter was played by Mary Martin made me love him even more, forever proving that anything the boys could do, the girls could do, too. Plus, he could fly.
Peter Pan is timeless, to me. If Peter was a real live boy, I always felt like we would be the best of friends. At the very least, we were cut from a similar cloth. As a child, I was always running barefoot in the grass in our backyard. It was a suburban neighborhood and so our backyard was quite small, but I always felt like there were acres of green surrounding me. I was Laura Ingalls Wilder. I was Caddie Woodlawn. Sometimes, I was even Xena, Warrior Princess.
When I'm climbing, I like to sometimes channel Xena. I'm Meg Murry, stubborn and self-conscious, but also a badass time-traveling mathematician. I'm Starbuck from Galactica, the cocky, anti-authoritarian, whiskey swigging fighter pilot. When I tie in, I channel a little bit of each of these fictional characters, and then I head up the route.
This past week marked the four year anniversary of our high school best friend's suicide. Four years is a long time, I mused that morning. I almost hadn't realized the date, as the days all sort of seem to blur together when you’re on a climbing trip. Some times, I wish I could try and forget the date as well as receiving the worst phone call of my life. It took me a long time to find my heart again because I never grieved. I would make some excuse, like I was too busy or just trying to be brave for everybody else. I would say that I couldn't go through life allowing pain to dictate how I behaved. And so, I kept a stoic face at all times.
Since then, I've learned that mourning is this cyclical thing, and you can't do it alone. You have good days and you have bad ones. Moments like that will always pass and figure themselves out. And eventually, they did. For a brief period of time, I became afraid of losing the people I loved to climbing. I would constantly think to myself, "It may happen. One day, someone I love will disappear and I won't be able to go with them." The impression that it leaves only makes you grip a little tighter and kiss a little harder every time you do.
Fast forward four years later, and life did go on, not with great joy, but with somewhat surprising contentment that I never imagined I'd really know. I continued to love the world he left us with. Although his departure was premature, it's the memory of Mike that remains timeless. For me, he will always be a skinny fourteen-year-old punk kid, skateboarding down the block to meet me at my house in the early morning hours when the rest of the world was sleeping. I'll always be kissing his cheek and his nose with my signature strawberry Lip Smackers chapstick in my back pocket. We'll always be stupid kids watching a stupid sunset and then, falling asleep together with a comforting knowledge that it will again rise. He'll be Peter Pan, and I'll be Xena, Warrior Princess.
Bangarang.
