It was bittersweet, opening the package that came in the mail today. I knew it was coming, but I still approached it with trepidation. My friend who passed away a couple weeks ago and I shared a near-obsession with the band Marillion, and the solo career of their former lead singer Fish. The last time we were together in person was when I flew out to spend two nights in Chicago, to see Marillion with her and our respective significant others. That weekend made the highlight reel of my life. If I understood correctly, my friend's partner has decided to move out of the tiny condo they shared. I did not ask a bunch of nosy questions about why. I didn't want to touch a nerve. As she was sorting out their co-mingled belongings, she came across my friend's collection of t-shirts and scarves acquired over decades' worth of Marillion and Fish concerts. The band was never her thing, but rather than toss them all in a thrift store drop-off bin, she put out a general question to those of us who were true fans, to see whether we wanted any of them. I guess I was the first one to speak up, and she sent me the lot right away, even though I wasn't trying to be greedy and take them all. I had said that I would like the t-shirt from the two-night show in Chicago, and if it still existed, I wanted the "It's Fish with an 'F' dammit" shirt my friend wore the night we met seventeen years ago. It does exist, and it is here now. I spread some of the shirts out on my table as I unpacked them, and I touched the artwork on the Fish shirt, remembering that first night in Denver. I was painfully shy then, but some little magic made me speak up. I can't tell you how happy I am that I did it. All through the years, I always listened to that little voice that said, "Hurry up. Don't waste any opportunities with this person." I followed the impulse to speak to a stranger, to drag my family to Omaha to spend the weekend with the Marillion gang at my friend's house, and to tell my man that the only thing I wanted for Christmas a few years ago was the trip to see the two-night show the following summer. I teared up a bit when I held those shirts, at the strong memories still woven in the cotton threads.
There are a few takeaway messages in there, but I feel like they don't need to be spelled out. I'm going to spend the rest of the evening with my memories, and their prog-rock soundtrack. And then I guess I'm going to go update my friend's fantasy football team, since we face off tomorrow. I will wear one of the shirts tomorrow too, while I watch a game on tv.
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