Patryk

In Memoriam

I have tried to write this note of farewell to a friend, and this request for prayers, three times now, but have been prevented from doing so by emotion. I shall keep it brief, therefore. Then too, as I noted some weeks ago when writing about my father, we always know too much about those we love to be able to say much at all, because words cannot begin to convey all we most want to communicate.

Patryk Cholewczynski was a friend of mine going back to my early days. He and his older brother Walter were part of the closest circle of my friends, especially during our time at Wilde Lake High School in Columbia, MD. All my memories of him from those years are happy ones, and all the memories of him in the years since are good ones. It had been more than seven years since I last crossed paths with him in person, and our communications in the interim had mostly consisted in texts about the Orioles, but it never occurred to me that I would not have an opportunity to see him again in this world, and perhaps have him introduce me to his son.

Walter called me two mornings ago, in a state of absolute devastation, to tell me that his brother had passed away in the night, unexpectedly. Patryk had suffered from coronary issues for some time, and Walter had told me of surgery he had gone through not long ago, but all the signs were of a smooth recovery. He had even returned to work. Then he was gone.

I happened to be thinking of Patryk a week before in connection with what may seem like a minor recollection, but one that always came to mind first when he was uppermost in my thoughts. It was simply that he had one of the most powerful throwing arms I ever saw. You see, during the summers, I and a few other friends used to play pickup baseball games on the school field behind the Cholewczynski home, and Patryk was usually in the outfield because he could get even the deepest ball back to the infield before the runner could round the bases. Roberto Clemente would have been proud of some of his “assists.”

That memory, though, opens the way to so many others, far too many to sort through just now. In those days, we all spent an enormous amount of time together—in the summers especially. During those long, very hot months, the days and nights both seemed endless. So did life. The brothers Cholewczynski, the eldest two of four, were always the very best company: Walter the more soft-spoken of the two, Patryk the somewhat brasher, and both simply splendid friends to have.

None of us ever lost touch with one another, whatever fortunes or misfortunes befell us (and there have been plenty of both). The times when any number of us were able at one time to get together in person were rare. There were some meals, some baseball games, but very few days altogether when added up. The occasions in particular that brought us all back to Maryland at the same time were chiefly grave ones—the interment of the remains of first my father and then my mother, for instance—and we spent most of the time devouring crab cakes and steamed crabs and discussing many of the same things we had been discussing ever since we were in our teens.

There is one memory, it occurs to me, that I want to note here. My son Patrick was not named for Patryk, it is true; but I recall thinking, when my wife had settled on what our child would be called, that no one in her family or mine had that name, and that the only person I had ever known well who did was the second Cholewczynski brother, and I thought to myself that this was, if nothing else, a happy association, or even a good omen, because of how highly I thought of him and how fond I was of him.

Anyway, I cannot write much more. Please, if you are disposed to such things, pray for Patryk, for his wife and son, and for all of his family.

One more thought, though. There is a great deal of cruelty in the world at any time, but more in some times and some places than in others. Right now, cruelty seems to be enjoying a vogue in the greater culture. Patryk was someone in whom I never observed even the faintest cruel impulse, even when he was angry about something. Some persons seem to infuse life with far more darkness than they have any right to do, and some bring more light and beauty into life than we have any right to expect. Patryk was one of the latter, and the world is poorer for his leaving it. I do believe, however, that there is place where neither the light nor the beauty we know here is lost, and that in that place I and all who loved Patryk will be with him again, and life really will be endless.