Concrete flowers

I’ve seen a flower grow through concrete. 

In theory, the plant should never find a way through the cold wall of cement. But the roots only need a microscopic crack to force their way up.

I’ve written extensively about my journey through grief following the cancer diagnosis, difficult journey and eventual death of my friend Fabian Ortega. 

It sent me to the lowest point of my life — a depth I wasn’t sure I’d be able to return from. 

Today marks three years since Fabian passed away, a lot has changed since the last time I saw him. 

Since the day he died in July 2020, I’ve slowly built a bond with his family. 

It started as a trip to a park with his brothers to play football and the occasional text here and there. 

Somewhere along the way, we established a bond that was built off of what I had with Fabian. 

We began spending more time around each other. 

The tragedy that brought us together turned into an undeniable chemistry that kept us together. 

We were always there for each other as a way to remember Fabian and cope with his loss, but we were also there because we enjoyed each other’s company. 

Both of Fabian’s brothers recently graduated from high school and 8th grade respectively. 

It reminded me a lot of my own high school graduation six years earlier. How I was seated right next to Fabian while he made fun of me for watching Cubs World Series highlights during our ceremony. 

“Growing up, I only knew y’all as Fabian’s brothers, and y’all only knew me as Fabian’s friend … I’ve been honored to watch your growth over these last three years,” I wrote to Fabian’s brother Wills on the day he graduated high school. 

“While obviously Fabian will always be the older brother, you’ve taken the role he can’t do physically and for that I thank you,” Wills wrote back. 

I sometimes wonder what Fabian would think about the person I am today, or who he would be if he was still around. 

I think about what it might have been like to hand him a copy of a cover story I did for the Sun-Times instead of leaving it in a drawer underneath where a framed picture of him hangs in his room. 

At the same time, I’m grateful I can share those accomplishments with his family and continue to watch them grow in their own ways. 

After Fabian died, I stopped worrying as much about success and prioritized enjoying my life more. 

While I still aspire to be the best journalist I can, the memories I create on my own time are just as important to me — accolades are how strangers remember you, memories are how loved ones keep you alive. 

The cracks in my life from losing Fabian still exist, and they will only grow as I inevitably continue to lose significant figures in my life as the years pass. 

But the beauty in tragedies — the bond that we forge from them that naturally grow on their own — make the cracks a little less spacious.