Making friends was difficult for me when I was six and entering into a new elementary school. Connor Porter was one of the first kids I talked to in the unfamiliar class, where I knew no one. Even at age six, Connor was always nice and never seemed to be sad. Whenever playground conflicts arose, Connor would apologize when he felt remorseful, and remained my friend. I wish I knew more people like that now, at age fifteen. As I think back on the memories I have of Connor, many of them took place at our fencing club. That's where he was the happiest. That's where he grew up.

            My first visit to Duke City Fencing Club was for Connor's eighth birthday party. That was the first time he asked me to join him in fencing there. I was always interested in learning to fence, but never seemed to have the time, between the mandated math tutoring and piano lessons. I remember thinking that fencing was one of the coolest things a seven-year-old could do - learn how to sword fight! It probably held as many childhood fantasies as motocross racing and flying a spacecraft. When I was actually handed a sword to fence at the party, I was surprised; it was very light and felt like an extension of my arm. At the end of the party, Connor opened his presents. I got him a remote controlled UFO, like the one I had received for my birthday the year before. I knew that it would be the perfect present for a boy as rambunctious as Connor. I remember he received a brand new bright orange water-gun that was the envy of every boy in the room.

            That was the last time I would fence for another four years. When I did get to take lessons, it was only over breaks at a local summer program. That's when I developed my passion for saber fencing.

            Second grade was starting within the week; I met up with Connor at a back to school pool party. A smile cracked on my face the moment I saw all of my friends there. The pool was spilling over with young children screaming and chasing each other in packs.  I'm sure the lifeguards loved it, their piercing whistles completely ignored. I had been to this pool before for various birthday parties, but I couldn't contain my excitement, seeing everyone I knew splashing and jumping off the diving board. I quickly took my place in the running pack. Then I stopped to look up at the soaring high dive, surely the highest point on Earth! Connor was bouncing up and down on the end of it - backwards! The board made the sound of a marbles rattling in a tin can with each bounce. He shouted, "Hey Alex, watch this!" and with that, he jumped up off the board, flipping backwards high into the air! My mouth gaped in awe until I realized that he wouldn't clear the end of the board and received a mouthful of metal diving board. He let out a thrilling scream as he fell three meters into the deep water.

             My mom rushed over to pull him out of the pool. With each sob, fresh blood dripped from his lower lip until he received a napkin to hold against the split. Blood never scares me, but I felt really bad for him. It reminded me of the time in first grade when we were enacting an adventure of Bionicle, and my hand flew back, connecting with his nose, causing a flowing nosebleed. I thought he would hate me after, but he only joked about it, and told stories of other childhood nosebleeds and assorted injuries.  Connor stopped crying from the split lip the moment the pizza arrived.        

            While I was waiting for my schedule to lighten up sufficiently enough to devote my time to joining the fencing club, my kid sister got to join! I was a little jealous, but at least I got to visit the club and get to know some of the fencers. When Connor was there, we would sit on the old worn-out white leather couches and talk about our middle school friends and latest videogame exploits. Finally, a year later, I got to join the club! I always wanted to fence with Connor, but we had long since chosen to fence different swords, and consequently, could not participate in the same events. I exclusively fenced saber, and Connor, foil. 

             As years passed, paintball became another obsession of Connor's. He would always tell me when he bought new gear, or placed in a tournament. Paintball nearly became as important to him as fencing. When he invited me to join several of our friends at the paintball arena the next day, I hesitated even to ask my parents, because they always discouraged gun-play with me when I was younger. So I was beyond shocked when then reluctantly agreed to let me go. Apparently, they concluded that I was indeed not going to grow up to be a sniper, and would act responsibly.

            My dad found his 15-year-old paintball gun in a box in the basement, which was still somehow in one piece, and let me take a look at it. It had a foam grip that was coated in dust, which floated away with a few slaps. It didn't look and feel like a toy, like the more modern ones do, which made me feel like I had to take good care of it. My parents reminded me to treat every gun - even a toy - as if it were loaded. My dad also gave me his old mask, which he had camouflaged with spray-paint. It was very flimsy and the foam edge of the goggles pinched the bridge of my nose.

            The next day at the paintball arena, I wore the thickest clothes I owned, and also put on my skateboarding pads for crouching or go on to all-fours. Connor leapt out of his car looking like a soldier from Tron. My friends told me that getting hit with a paintball is like getting hit with a rolled up towel. They lied. Getting hit with a paintball is equivalent to getting hit with a rock propelled at 300 feet-per-second. Connor was the first one to shoot me. Several rounds later, I took a paintball to the mask.  Fluorescent green paint filled my goggles and I inhaled thick air tasting of oil based paint. Then my gun broke, I was done for the day.

            The final weeks of knowing Connor were approaching, and no one had any idea.  It was summer break between eighth and ninth grade, and I was enjoying having all the extra time to train at the club. Connor was there most days, but we still never fenced each other. We did, however, love bantering about the each other's politics and inferior choice of sword.

            Like any other day at the club, there were the brash sounds of swords being repaired, the familiar ring of epees hitting opponents' guards, footsteps advancing and retreating up and down the strip; and audible over all this, was Connor's joyful, loud laugh, telling jokes that should have been whispered. That day, I saw that Connor had a guitar case with him. I had forgotten that he was a fellow guitarist. He told me that I could play it while he was waiting for his ride home.

            I was used to playing classical and electric guitars. The body of Connor's acoustic guitar had a black to blue fade, and the neck curved at the upper frets. It was a very pretty guitar. If I had played acoustic, I would have owned a similar one. As I tried to get the feel of the unfamiliar guitar, I noticed that its steel strings were tighter and required more resistance than the nylon strings of my classical guitar. I positioned my fingers on the starting chord and played one of my favorite, and last, songs for Connor, "Famous Last Words." Then his mom came in to pick him up. He said, "See you later." Had I known that the next words would be my last to him, I would not have responded merely with a smile and clipped, "bye."

            Two weeks later, I had just returned from an amazing time at summer camp in the Midwest. I was relieved to be back in the desert heat of New Mexico, out of the heavy, humid heat of Missouri that left my skin sticky. Now that I was home, I was reacquainting myself with my precious iPod, which had been denied me at camp. I sat down to enter all of the new Facebook contacts that I had collected from my new camp friends; but when I opened Facebook, I wasn't greeted by the usual posts and photos of friends attending parties and going on vacations. Instead, someone posted, "Has anyone heard anything about a plane crash involving Connor Porter?" Another friend posted, "RIP Connor."

            My brain seemed to escape my body. I wasn't sure what to think. This was NOT a cool or appropriate prank! Sometimes my friends could be idiots! It couldn't be true . . . I showed my mom the posts, and she panicked much more than I had expected. She ran to the computer to check the news channel's website, and suddenly it was all very real.  The news site confirmed that three people had been killed when a private plane, registered to Connor's dad, had crashed in Arizona just a few hours ago.

            I checked Facebook again. Now people were posting that Connor, his dad, and another classmate of ours, also named Connor, were onboard the plane when it crashed. Two friends killed! It was hard to breathe. I added my condolence post to the stream of others on the newsfeed.

            Death always brings confusion. The gap they leave gets filled by questions: Where are they? Is there a God? Is there a heaven? Or even a hell? My thoughts were fixated on scenarios that played out in my mind, childhood flashbacks, and the loss that their families were enduring.         The eulogies from my friends' funerals highlighted their numerous, extraordinary achievements: One Connor, a composer since age eleven; the other Connor, a National Medalist in foil; both Connors, good friends whose absence will always be felt. As I heard the stories of their tragically brief, but accomplished lives, I became determined not to fear death, but to live my life based on the story I would want told of me.

            My friendship with Connor Porter is part of that story. I will always regret not fencing with him. He brought me into the sport that I love today. While we may not have agreed about which sword was best, which politician was most qualified, or who it was that really shot me in the butt at paintball, we remained good friends.