When I was twelve years old I rode my bike twenty miles to sit at my brother’s grave. I talked to him through the earth. I asked him if he could hear me.
When a son dies it rips your heart out. When a son kills himself it rips you all to pieces. Grief has been joined by anger and guilt. Anger because a young man of twenty would throw away the gift of life. Guilt because you didn’t pick up that last phone call.
It made him laugh, bitterly of course — that his being totally alone was Cosmic Justice, Karma, Payback from ‘God,’ whatever you want to call it.
This hippie guy I knew back in my Topanga Beach days, thirty years ago for godsake, emails me out of the blue and writes: Hey man, I’m sorry about the passing of your wife. I read about it on your blog,