Everybody has a friend who is habitually late. For me, that would be my friend Lupe. In college, he'd be the last one through the classroom door. He was late to parties. He was late to my wedding, showing up halfway through the reception. But you'd never think of holding a grudge - he always had a ready smile, and a good story to tell.
We joked that he would be late for his own funeral. I've always thought that was sort of a pun wrapped in a joke, in the sense that 'late' can mean 'passed away.' It sort of makes sense, with late being something that came on towards the end or after its time (a late harvest, or someone being in their late thirties).
Lupe, as a student and teacher of creative writing, would've liked that. He moved around a lot, and I lost touch some time ago. Then I heard the other day that he was late one last time, dying of cancer only a month after being diagnosed. The doctors had given him two to three months; as a friend joked, this may have been the first time he was ever early for anything.
A couple of months ago, Lupe left a message on my answering machine, and I never got around to calling him back. I still have a post-it note with his phone number, by the shelf where I keep my keys. I thought about tossing it this morning, but I think I'm going to keep it as a reminder to do a better job of keeping in touch. While it's still early.
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