We went streaking the night he slept over at my house. It was his idea. He enjoyed being rowdy, and naked. I thought I was his only friend in high school, so it was quite surprising when, after they found his body—at the sandpit miles from town, where they claimed he had been swimming and drinking, alone, in the middle of the night—the whole class dedicated the yearbook to his memory, expressing overwhelming love and sadness and shock at his passing. I don’t remember ever hearing anyone speak of him again after that. What was his name again?

I try to remember what I remember about him. We shared the same grade and the same first name. He was different. He was born with pure white hair—some genetic thing—which I thought was cool. That was not what made him different. We were young enough that we didn’t know what the difference was, but we all knew what the difference was. He was bullied and tortured by his classmates, because. After he killed himself, no one spoke of him again. I hid because I was different too. When I remember him, I feel my hair turning white. 

We sang the last song—Children of the Heavenly Father—in Swedish, as we had each night of our short choir tour. The church was full, so the old man stood through the entire concert, listening from behind the pews. As we sang Tryggare kan ingen vara, he wept. In that moment it seemed that music turned into memory, and sound became water, and tears were transmuted into the wine of communion. Suddenly I was part of something holy. I don’t know what he saw beneath his tears; but for a moment, seeing him see it, I believed in God.