I saw Jana Williams, Tommy’s sister, at the recent Bonhi reunion. I wanted to repost this piece in memory of Tommy.

Today, I was cleaning out a closet and came across a large envelope filled with clippings and photos from my mother’s house—items I’d received after she died. I unfolded a yellowed newspaper tucked inside and realized it was an obituary page. For a moment, I wasn’t sure why Mom had saved it. Then my eyes landed on a familiar face.

Tom Williams.

Oh, goodness.

When I was no older than three, Tom Williams lived just two blocks from us on 13th Street. I thought he was the handsomest boy I’d ever seen. In fact, I created an imaginary friend named Tommy Wizzims—along with another named Heidi—who joined me in my daily adventures.

Tom was my older brother’s friend, so he was often around our house. He must’ve been kind to me because even now, all these years later, just seeing his face brings a warm feeling to my heart. I imagine he knew I’d named an imaginary friend after him—spoken in the earnest, mangled way only a three-year-old can. I like to think that brought a smile to his face.

According to the obituary, Tom died in a car accident at 58. He had been married, had four children, and at the time of his death, a longtime companion. He ran a nursing home, and the obituary said that when he walked into a room, the residents’ faces would light up.

My eyes filled with tears.

That’s exactly how I felt when I saw him as a little girl—just happy. Pure and simple.

I didn’t know Tom had died, and I felt a wave of sadness that his life had been cut short. I thought about those old imaginary friends, Tommy and Heidi, and how my mother indulged them—setting extra places at the table because I would tug at her sleeve and say, “But they’re hungry!”

The kindness of one person can ripple far and wide. It sounds like that was true of my Tommy Wizzims.

What a strange thing to find today. But what a gift to be reminded of one teenage boy who took the time to be kind to a little girl.

Clearly, he meant something to my mother too. Enough for her to tuck away that obituary, and keep it all these years.