Remembering Tyler

I was thinking a lot about Tyler Pulsipher as I ran up Orem Boulevard between 5:30 and 6:00 this morning. I couldn't stop thinking about him.
He was roughly my same age--maybe as much as a year older. I met him in 7th grade when we both began attending the same middle school. We had a class together--Language Arts. One of my most persistent memories of him is in Mrs. Gailey's class, sneezing as violently as he could onto his desk (much to the dismay of Vicki Bajwa, who sat at a desk directly opposite him). At the time he was committed to sneezing as powerfully and unapologetically as he could, whenever he could.
We were both LDS, though I don't know how or when we became aware of that, as we wouldn't start attending seminary until 9th grade. We would have been in the same stake, though, and for all I know there was some stake event that brought us all together at the beginning of our middle school years.
I went with Tyler and his dad to an away football game in Prosser--perhaps the only time I did that not as a member of the marching band. I spent a night at his house with his neighbor and our mutual friend, Brad Bricker, and we watched a video called Super Ted, which both of my West Richland friends had grown up on, but which I'd never heard of. All I remember now is that Super Ted shared his adventures with a friend, "The Spotted Man."
In French class Tyler, Brad, and I, along with Artie Clarkson, put on a puppet show of an African folk tale called Maigrichon. The papier-mache giant puppet I made for the play is in a box somewhere in my house, and I can still hear the comically squeaky voice Tyler used to give life to the play's title character. The cassette we were assigned to record for the show may also be in a box somewhere in my house, too - a piece of Tyler that has outlasted him.
After graduating high school, I soon lost touch with Tyler. We went to different colleges. My family moved to a different state. I served a two-year mission in Italy. I got married. And when I joined facebook after my second child was born, I eventually found Tyler again. I learned of his brain tumor and of his doctor's six-month estimate. I learned he lived in Provo. I suggested we get together sometime. He agreed.
Somehow a formal invitation was never extended and it never happened. Part of the reason was our hectic home life as we tried to get a handle on raising children. But I admit that part of the reason was also fear on my part--fear of not knowing what to say to my terminally ill friend, or how to act around him. There was no malice in me as I consciously and unconsciously put off our reunion, but malicious behavior is only one way to incur guilt.
We moved to Logan. I completed my master's program. We moved back to Orem. I didn't think much about him. Then one day when I thought to check up on him through facebook, I found that he had died after a four-year battle with cancer.
Why, two-and-a-half years after that did he come to mind and linger there so persistently as I ran in the pre-dawn darkness along the quiet streets around my home? I remember now - I was remembering that before a big race or athletic event, many athletes carb-load, and wondered if I would feel more energy if I ran after breakfast rather than on an empty stomach. I remember learning about carb-loading for the first time in the Pulsipher's kitchen. I can clearly see Tyler's older brother Trent grinning as he shovels a heaping pile of pasta onto his plate in preparation for a soccer game that evening. Such a simple trigger touched off a series of memories and the reminder of my own mortality--that I have already outlived more than one of my peers, and I have no guarantee that my own life will not also be similarly cut short.
Because of a random word-association, Tyler is likely to stay with me my whole life, always that short, spunky middle-schooler, passionate about sneezing, making each one count.

we are here

our new kitchen floor does little
to abate the noise of four hungry
children, eager for their breakfast--
mornings like this I miss the carpet
we tore up; the milk stains
and ground in cornflakes
were easier to ignore.

when silence is won, by persistent
parental fiat, I add as afterword:
"This isn't Whoville!"
a reference I hope will illustrate
the ruckus they raised. After all,
it's just breakfast, not life or death.

in the welcome quiet I hear
echoing, as if from far away
We are here! We are here!
We are here! We are here!
I watch the kids sedately spooning
sugars into stilled mouths.

maybe this is Whoville after all.