Some of the pictures were bent and faded, some were printed from social media, one was framed.
Dan Corso used them as inspiration for his weight loss.
The old him.
Young.
Healthy, at least in body, but bright and creative as he was troubled and impulsive.
He had few pictures of himself now. Hadn’t attended social events in years. Hated being stared at.
Dan could walk now, and would walk, with the help of a walker, into St. Hedwig Cemetery, where Samantha Tumley was being laid to rest.
Dan brought his junior year football photo in his pocket.
Sammie wasn’t in the photo, but that’s when they dated.
417 lbs ago.
Marty Weiner saw Dan struggling and pushed two extra folding chairs underneath him.
Dan hadn’t seen Marty in years.
The service had already started, so they exchanged silent smiles. Dan was convinced Marty didn’t recognize him.
Dan wondered if he would have gotten this big if he and Sammie had stayed together.
It was two months, fuckface. Two months when we were sixteen.
If Sammie had ended her own life six months prior, Dan wouldn’t have been able to attend at all.
Too big, too sick.
Sammie’s brother Scott took the podium, face drained of color, trying to hold it together.
Dan hadn’t spoken to Sammie in years, embarrassed of his weight, embarrassed in general.
She was on the list of people he would try to hang with when he was below 300.
I’ll lose weight faster…no, dumbdumb, slow and steady….reach out to people…speak, communicate, don’t hesitate…life’s too short.
Dan realized he had tuned Scott out. Poor guy was really struggling with his composure.
Dan tuned back in.
Scott was talking about being envious of his sister. His pride and his regret.
Then he pulled a piece of paper.
“We found this with Samantha’s things. She wrote it junior year of high school. We think…my mom and I…think it’s beautiful. We…”
Scott sniffled, wiped his eyes and nose with the forearm of his black suit coat sleeve.
“...we think it’s beautiful. It’s about the future.”
Scott read the poem. It was what someone might expect from a sixteen year old in 1995, above average maybe, singsongy and rhyming.
Scott finished the poem, began to fold it, smiled.
“In the corner, in a little heart, it says “For D.C.”
Scott’s head swung to his left and he smiled again under puffy eyes.
“Was that you, Dave Curetti?”
Dan Corso blurted “It’s me.”
Everyone, all the people in their single folding chairs, turned and stared at Dan Corso.
Scott Tumley sputtered “Um…who are you?”
Dan Corso hesitated.
He knew he was done hesitating.
Before he could say his own name, someone recognized him and said his name out loud.
They recognized him.
To whomever said it, and to everyone else, Dan Corso said “thank you.”
***
I wasn’t certain I could write today. I did, fighting through a few personal hardships.
If you’d like to see me make it to 1000 consecutive stories, any help would be appreciated. My Venmo is James-Graham-80.
I’m well aware some of you pay to be here and I deeply appreciate you, but my repeated attempts to grow the audience and sustain myself are not working, though I continue to add to the most prolific and best archive on Substack.
Thank You.
Oh my heart. You have a way of making something tragic into something uplifting without the least bit of contrivance.
This was a wonderful, heartwarming story.
I took mom to the cemetery to see Dad's spot today.
We hadn't been there since his ceremony.
We then drove another hour to see her brother and his wife whom I haven't seen in more than 50 years.
Life is getting shorter and shorter and it's important to make the most of every opportunity.
For me, it was a great day.
I am sorry it was rough for you.
No matter when the streak breaks, you are still worth reading and supporting.
All the best.