It is the first picture that I unpack when moving to a new place. It is a fairly unassuming frame with two photos, one of my brother and I on the beach as children, one of a beautiful young woman. It has always held a place of subtle prominence in my home for it is one of the most important things I own. The woman in that frame is a friend of mine, her name is Jos and she left this earth 10 years ago, on August 29, 1988.

Her mother gave me that photo after her funeral, as her friends huddled together in shock. She had written a poem, "Balloons at my Funeral," so we released purple and black balloons, like her poem said to. On the way to the cemetery we got caught up in the wrong funeral procession and wound up at a cemetery way out of town. We arrived at the right cemetery just in time to see her lowered into the ground.

I first met her when she was dating my older brother. 3 years older and 20 years wiser, I was drawn to her right away. She was beautiful and charming, with experience in things I had yet to dream of. She told me that she had been bisexual, but had realized that she’d rather be straight. I was all of 14 and utterly fascinated that someone I knew had done that. At the time I was madly in love with my best friend but couldn’t even imagine holding her hand.

I had the privilege of knowing Jos well for about a year. She was in my second year German class- rather unusual for a senior but a circumstance that I’m grateful for. I was constantly amazed at how much she had done in her short life but now I’m glad that her life had been so full.

The last night I saw her was at a party. I had picked up my first drink ever- a wine cooler of some sort. Trying to appear suave, I approached her, drink in hand. She took one look at it and took it from me saying, "you’re too young to drink." And I was. I cast that drink aside and didn’t drink again for many years.

Jos also had a subtler affect on how I treat others. While I knew her, I would often lash out at anyone that I thought was stupid, mean or just different. I almost came to blows with a classmate over nothing when Jos stepped in saying, "why can’t you just let people be?" words that still come to mind when I find myself being too judgmental. She made me see that it wasn’t important that I like everyone just that I treat them with respect.

Other important lessons were ones that she never intended to teach. Because she died from not wearing her seatbelt, I became the seatbelt police. For at least a year afterwards, I would get hysterical if everyone in the car didn’t have their belts on. I’ve calmed down since, but still refuse to drive unless everyone is buckled in. Losing Jos also made me drive more cautiously than I might have otherwise. I didn’t take the kinds of chances that other drivers my age did because I never got to think I was invincible. I already knew that I wasn’t.

Losing Jos at such a young age made me a different, stronger person than I might have been. For a long time I was more cautious about almost everything, hesitant to be really close to anyone. While in some ways I appreciated life in new ways, I was also more cynical about it. I already knew how tenuous our hold on life was and I just couldn’t take any chances. It’s been hard to discard that cautiousness, but I know that I can’t spend my whole life petrified of dying. To live in such fear is disrespectful to the joy and wonder at the world that I learned from my good friend Jos. I can’t do that to her- she wouldn’t want me to.

In memory of Joselyn Ruth Buckley. 1970-1988.