Magical Pajamas

My first memory was of Errol smiling into my crib. He had a smile that could resolve any argument and a personality to match. Whenever I felt tired, anxious, or just fed up with life, Errol would be there to tell me it was ok, that everything was alright, that I was a stronger person than I gave myself credit for, even if I couldn’t understand it at the time.

As a kid, I remember getting my first camera as a birthday gift from Errol. It was nothing special, just a simple point-and-shoot. Back in the days when film had to be developed, I would save my pennies and run down to CVS for a new roll, cradling the old one like I would an infant. I had boxes of photos of us diving in the local lake, horsing around in the woods behind the house and leaping off the old tire swing in the backyard. The world was a canvas waiting to be painted by our whims and actions; each photo was a masterpiece of our time on Earth.

As an adult, I remember having brief yet deep conversations with Errol over Facebook and Skype. His life’s mission was to travel the world and donate his time and money to help those less fortunate than himself. As long as other human beings suffered, he suffered. Whenever he got time to come back to the States, we’d meet up for beers or visit our childhood stomping grounds, reminiscing over younger, more innocent days. On his last trip, I’d paid him back his gift to me with a new digital camera, but only on the condition that he’d use it to chronicle his adventures across the planet. Within days of him leaving, I was treated to an ever-growing mosaic of foreign faces, places, and snapshots of human kindness that made me question my own life choices.

As an old man, I watched Errol wither under the weight of his own generosity. He had given too much of himself and paid for it in the end. As payment for improving the lives of those around him, he sacrificed his own health, and although he was only two years older than me, it looked as if we were decades apart. He died when I was 70, and I held his hand as he took his last breath. I didn’t take many pictures after that.

When Errol died, the wonder and joy of the world died with him. I realized that my own time in this world was running short, and while I was too frail to create new memories, I could still relive older ones. I climbed up to the attic and found the old boxes where my pictures and video cassettes lay collecting dust. One by one I scanned each image and digitized each cassette, amassing a digital graveyard of Errol’s experiences and memories. I saved this archive to a hard drive, which I carefully wrapped in electrostatic plastic and tucked safely into my pocket. When I was certain I had accomplished my goal, I opened the window in my office and leapt headfirst onto the asphalt three stories below.

I felt a palpable sense of relief as I opened my eyes and saw my bedroom. I was once again a young man in my apartment, waking up from a long, hazy dream. Yet today there was something different. Something pressed against my thigh. I reached into the pocket of my pajamas and pulled out a small hard drive in an electrostatic bag. Vivid images from my dream rushed into my mind, and I closed my eyes as hot tears welled. I gently set the hard drive on my desk next to the only picture of Errol I owned, a picture of him as a toddler just before he died in that fateful accident over two decades ago.