I do a lot of searching, either for family trees, yearbooks, missing people, or just plain curiosity. I’ve found a staggering amount of familiar faces in annuals from all over the United States. Usually, I finish my list of interesting tidbits with more questions than I start with.
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This is a picture of Bill Flanagan as he appeared in the 1964 Springdale High School yearbook. I have three points: #1, he looks exceedingly like Anthony Michael Hall from his younger days in “The Breakfast Club.” (Which is why I paired him with his doppelganger in my picture.) ‪#‎B‬, he is wearing sunglasses in his picture. I’ve looked at hundreds of yearbooks from the 60s – seeing a pair sunglasses is rare. #6, it is possible he is blind, in which case I am more intrigued than ever. (He’s not wearing glasses in the 1963 annual.)
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The picture is from 51 years ago, so I’m sure someone in my expanded overlapping circles would know someone who knows him. I’ve found a weird assortment of missing people in the last few years. One constant in my efforts is that someone always knows something that leads to the person in question.
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But his picture is an example of one of those things I’m not sure I want to investigate. I’ve had his yearbook picture for a couple of years. Each time I encounter it, I tend to ask myself why I have a picture of Anthony Michael Hall and then I remember the unexplained picture from the 1964 yearbook.
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All the stories in my head I’ve created to explain Bill Flanagan’s sunglasses probably eclipse the reality he went on to live. I hope not. I hope his life was absolutely fascinating.
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His picture from the annual is frozen in time, existing in dusty closets and in the bowels of the internet, maybe forever. I see his picture and wonder about the roads he walked, the people he met, and why he had on sunglasses for this yearbook picture.
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I prefer to continue to wonder rather than to know, even as I am tempted to find his life story. In my imagination, Bill Flanagan lived a life too full to capture in a synopsis. I hope we all do and that you too find your pair of sunglasses in each moment.

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PS: I used a weird numbering system to confuse some and annoy the perfectionists.

Early December fiery 5 o’clock sun signaling its defeat and imminent rest for the night.
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Behind, a fire truck pulls forth, signaling the close of a day. A squirrel braves the cooling pavement, dashing wildly.
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Ahead, the festive lights of the square blaze by unseen hand and invisible switch, the season of mirth and merry heralded.
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A jogger, a biker, and ambling walkers approach, their demeanor one of determination and process. None sees that the sun sets for them, too, but perhaps not today.
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Below, the recent widower arrives first; his tired gait a testament to his apt fatigue. A door is held open and he enters, frightened of a possible future absent his own heart.
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A childhood friend, alone, reluctant, marching toward the relentless and yet singular ritual, hands in pockets, shuffling.
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We are all observers, watching even ourselves from our own windows, peering askance at others traveling, peculiar yet familiar, not wishing to look directly at our shared loss.
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A gathering of souls trapped in their bodies, gathered to witness and cherish one of their own. Laughter, hugs, memories and the discomfort of failed words, all tinged with appreciation.
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For a delicate moment, brief as it may be, they swim together in love, toward one another, bonded by an absence that burns.
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A whisper, a tickle in my mind. “Let my life be so,” I ponder, a secret smile touching my lips.
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Let me return to my hazy nap, the world receding, taking its perpetual promise of unknowing with it.
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Hers was a fine life, the fruits of which are still ripening, not soon to fade from memory. Her eyes now averted toward another promise, a good life, a good person, a world of friends and family.
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PS: “Life is never more meaningful than in our shared small steps, nor more appreciated than in times of bittersweet regard.”