We Were Six Until One Just Vanished

Wayne lived less than 200 yards from my childhood home. The sound of a basketball bouncing down the street meant he was on his way over; my mom would call out before he reached the driveway.

We'd play for hours until the light faded; sweat, laughter, and that steady rhythm of the ball built something stronger than we understood at the time.

Wayne stood out in ways that still feel hard to explain without sounding like exaggeration. He moved with a speed that wasn't forced; he played any sport with a smoothness that made everything seem easy, and his mind worked even faster than his body.  Humor came out of him without effort. Despite him never trying to be the funniest guy in the room, he always was. My older brother treated him like family; Wayne fit in without trying.

I use past tense because that version of life feels sealed off. Wayne belonged with us; the group felt complete with him there. Thirty years ago, he walked away.

No call or explanation. Nothing.

My last conversation with Wayne still sits in a place I can't shake.

I was next to a pay phone in Madison (my ex and two daughters at the time were there for a farming expo). I was there because I worked as a technical writer and illustrator for a dairy parlor company at the time. Something came up on my end; I don't even remember what it was. I picked up the phone, called him, gave him an update, and asked for a raincheck.

And that was that.

We weren't given any warning or sense anything had shifted; I treated the call like we had endless time. I spoke to him like there would always be another chance.

There wasn’t.

That truth settles in deeper with each passing year. I replay that call more often than I care to admit. I don't change the words; I change the tone, imagining that I slowed down. Not only that, but I imagine letting him know he mattered beyond routine. 

Regret builds in quiet layers until it feels permanent.

The five of us never stopped trying to find him. We searched before the internet made it easier, and we searched after, following leads that went nowhere. We asked questions that never found answers. His name never left our conversations.

Every once in a while, the question comes back: Where did Wayne go? Why did he leave without a word?

We never talk about him like a memory; we talk about him like he could still walk through the door.

Wayne brought energy that lifted everything around him. Ordinary days turned into something better when he showed up. He made people sharper and quicker without ever trying to prove anything. His absence didn't create noise; it left a quiet gap that never filled.

The remaining five of us stayed close; life moved forward with families, careers, and responsibilities that pull people in different directions. We call, text, visit, and still say we love each other. That part never changed; something else did. A piece of the circle always feels incomplete.

The hardest part comes back to that last call. I picture the pay phone, the casual tone, and how easy it felt to push a meeting off to another day. 

Small decisions rarely feel permanent in the moment. Sometimes they are.

Stories like Wayne's aren't rare. Plenty of people carry a missing name in their circle when someone drifts off, and the reasons never come back. The bond felt strong enough to last a lifetime, yet it broke without warning.

I value the four brothers who remain more than I ever did before. We say what needs to be said, good or bad. We stay connected purposely, not letting silence stretch too far.

Wayne still holds his place with us; nobody filled it or replaced him. That door never closed.

Life keeps moving, but that empty spot stays, reminding me to pick up the phone, show up, and know when to follow through when it would be easier to delay.

Somewhere out there, Wayne carries his own story. I hope that narrative brought him peace. I hope he knows he mattered more than any missed meeting.

Five brothers remain; six still feels right.

Here's to missing friends.