The first time I met you, we were in a bar in Albuquerque. Actually, I met you in the backseat of a friend’s car – your friend had asked if I wanted a ride to another party after the bar had closed, and I had gotten into the car mistakenly thinking I was being given a ride home after my friend’s truck had broken down.

Once inside the car, I realized that the interior lights were not bright enough for me to see either of you talk to me. And then you pulled out your pager and turned on its light so that I could see your face.

“Can you see me now?” you had asked.

I mean, most of my friends and family often forget that I am deaf and read lips, and they also try to talk to me in the dark sometimes, which is always an impossibility of epic proportions. But not you – you made sure I could see you enough to understand you.

And through the years, I have found myself occasionally thinking back to that night and the act of kindness you had shown me. We were both about to graduate from different colleges and not yet spoiled by a cynical, insane world, and those little moments of gentleness would become sentimental treasures the older I became.

Your friend would take me home, and I would not see you again until a couple of months later – this time during a weekend ski trip to a Colorado ski resort that mutual friends of ours had arranged. The Friday night of that weekend, my then-girlfriend and I had arrived at the condo well into the darkened morning hours after a long drive from El Paso, and it had been too late to talk to anyone.

The next morning, I hurriedly dragged my girlfriend onto the ski slopes without so much as saying “Good morning, everybody!” I mean, in my impatience to hit the slopes, I had pretty much ignored everything and everyone, and didn’t have a chance to say hello to you. I figured I would eventually see you either somewhere on the ski slopes later that day or that night at the condo where dinner was to be cooked by everyone in our group.

I spent the day teaching my girlfriend how to ski through her constant tears of frustration. By the end of the day, I had ditched the girlfriend and gone off to find the most difficult trails I could ski, and enjoyed the hell out of myself.

And as you can probably imagine, when we were all sitting around the kitchen table that night, eating herb-roasted chicken, sweetened potatoes, and buttered asparagus served with beer and wine, there was already a bit of tension between my girlfriend and I. Later after dinner when we began to play drinking games like Table Charades, my girlfriend became sensitive after you finger-spelled a word I could not understand.

My reaction of surprise became ammunition for my girlfriend and she accused me of “having a connection” with you because you had signed to me. And unfortunately, I ended up spending the rest of the night catering to her insecurities; the next morning, we left before everyone woke up because I had decided I needed to take her home before I ditched her once and for all in the middle of the Rocky Mountains.

I never really knew if we had a “connection” beyond what my girlfriend claimed (“a woman’s intuition is never wrong,” she kept saying) all through the drive back to El Paso. I mean, the first night we met in the bar, I had really appreciated the compassion you had shown me, and when you began signing to me, I really had thought, “Awesome! About time somebody learned to sign ‘round here!”

I dismissed the “connection” you and I had, and attributed it to the overzealous insecurities of my girlfriend, who was also a freshman in college at that time. I mean, I never understood what she meant by the “connection” she thought we had, and I never really dwelled on it, either.

Once back home, life returned to its familiar routines as we got on with our lives. Every now and then, I would run into mutual friends who would keep me updated on your life’s adventures: you graduated college, had been accepted into a prestigious graduate school and had gotten engaged.

Then one night a few years after the ski trip, I was at a New Year’s Eve party in Albuquerque when I found myself in a fight. A drunk guy had been throwing heavy balls made of marble at people inside the house, and I had grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into a wall after he threw a ball at one of my brothers.

Chaos ensued, and there were a lot of angry people yelling at anyone they could find to yell at, and for a moment, I felt I had been sucked into a swirling tempest with no way out. Another guy pushed me and we were about to start fighting when you came in between us.

You put your hands on my chest and told me, “It’s okay. I’m here – look at me.”

And when I looked down at you, you smiled the kindest, gentlest smile I have ever seen in my life, or since then. And in a split moment, the world seemed to stop.

It was like, only you and I existed.

And for what seemed like an eternity, neither of us said a word.

We shared a smile and then I felt foolish – almost embarrassed. I apologized to you for having gotten into the fight in the first place and that I really didn’t want to ruin the party for anyone.

And all you did was hug me. It was a gentle, compassionate hug – the kind that you don’t ever forget – and it made me feel good inside.

The mob inside the house eventually calmed down, and after people began leaving the party, we cleaned up the debris left over from the fighting though we did not talk. And later, when I was leaving the party, I hugged you and apologized again.

You know, it’s funny, too – we never really made any connections. We never asked for each other’s email or telephone numbers, either. And we never asked if one of us wanted to have coffee or tea for a quick chat.

I had always thought of you as a friend, though there were times that I wondered why I found you intriguing. And when we would meet by accidental fate, I had the sense that I was lucky to have been in your presence – your smile illuminated the rooms you walked into, and warmed the lives that you touched.

Many years would pass before I would see you again. I went on with my life, bouncing around the Southwest until I settled in Colorado. Like you, I graduated from college and graduate school, and though I never did get married, I came close a few times.

A few months ago, I received an invitation from a childhood buddy of mine to attend his wedding reception, and I had wondered if you would be there since we still had many of the same, mutual friends in common.

It was really good seeing you again last night.

When I saw you last night for the first time in ten years, I instantly knew it was you. And besides the fact that you looked only slightly older than the last time I had seen you, you looked the same: beautiful  straight, brown hair that flowed to your shoulders, and you looked like you had taken good care of your body – you looked tan and fit like you always have.

I was tempted to walk to your table and say hello, but for some reason, I didn’t. I felt like I was messing with karma if I had walked up to you, and so, I guess I avoided you for a good part of the night.

As the night became older, I began to think that I would not run into you again, and that I would not see your smile one last time. In fact, whenever I did look at you last night, I felt a little sadness radiate from you – you hardly ever smiled.

I wondered if life had treated you fairly, and if you had achieved any of your goals and dreams. And then I wondered about the harsh realities of life that can get in the way of people’s hopes and dreams: Did you get divorced? Did you go bankrupt? Do you have children? Cancer? Diabetes? Are you a Republican?

I danced for a little while and probably had too much to drink (the groom had instructed me to, “Abuse the bar!” and I dutifully complied) when we finally did run into each other near the exit of the expansive ballroom that the reception was held.

And it was awkward at first. I looked at you and saw tired eyes, and when you smiled, I saw a struggle behind it. I remember looking down at the ground in disappointment when you told me that you had gotten divorced, and the only thing I could offer was a shrug.

“It happens.” you said, and we both laughed and shared a smile.

I nodded and hugged you tightly, and then I told you it was good to see you again.

And then I left.

I am older now, and find myself losing touch with many of my childhood, high school and college friends. I often feel the need to reach out to my old friends and make the attempt to rehash old memories and good times, but I never do.

Memories are untouchable, and though they often change with the times, some memories never change – they just disappear until something or someone gives you pause to remember a moment or two from the past. Like, when you’re driving on the interstate and pass a landmark, every time you look into the rearview mirror, it gradually gets smaller until it disappears.

Until the next time you pass by.

I will always remember you as a gentle, compassionate soul. I will always treasure the moment we had during the New Year’s Eve fight. And I am always proud of the fact that you learned the alphabet in sign language and hope you learn more. And our “connection” has always been through our circle of friends – something we can both treasure together, always.

And in case I never see you again, I hope you have a great life.

It was really nice knowing you.

Paotie