The truth of the matter

I'm working at the computer when I hear an unfamiliar familiar sound.

It's the strange dropping swoop of a Facebook Messenger notification.  Years ago, I read on a internet security blog that it's unwise to have a Facebook Messenger app, due to the fact that you have to allow it an alarming amount of access to your personal information.

This means I can only access Facebook Messenger from my computer or laptop.  It also means that if I'm being contacted this way, it's usually someone who doesn't know me well enough to have my email address or my phone number.

Glancing at the name, my heart sinks just a little.  It's someone from my high school, who only gets in touch when a) she's planning a high school reunion; or b) she's lost track of someone she really wants to talk to -- I have a reputation for knowing where people are. 

It's a bit of both.  I supply her with an address, and she politely expresses the hope I'll be able to come.  I am courteously noncommittal.

"I don't know if you know," she texts, "but Buck Rogan died."

I did, of course.  As I've mentioned, I know where people are.  Buck is, presumably, in heaven.  

I've cudgelled my brain, but I have no memories of him, although I remember him.  He was one of the jocks, and I don't recall his saying a word to me.  

That's okay.  His obituary has a reasonably long list on online tributes, as is usual with one who dies before his time.  Clearly those who mattered to him, and to whom he mattered, are grieving.

I've kept in touch with those who matter to me.  I trust I matter to them as well -- although I may be mistaken.

This is the reason I don't go to high school reunions anymore.  I don't tell my correspondent that, because it might sound as if I don't care.  I wish I didn't -- which is also why I won't be going.