In Memoriam

The early light looked yellow this morning, like an old, faded photograph, the kind curling up at the edges. I woke thinking of an old friend, and went to sit outside. I live in a medium-sized Midwestern city, but it was quiet at 6:15. The birds just stirring. No cars yet on the road. There’s a fox that lives in my neighborhood, and maybe I was looking for him.

I was thinking of suicide. Not committing it myself, but contemplating the act. The old friend I woke thinking of killed himself a few days ago. If you’re from my hometown, you know who I’m talking about.

I had lost touch with Glenn, other than us making silly comments to each other on Facebook. But a long time ago we used to play poker. Glenn played poker, that is. I mostly drank beer. But that’s a different story.

Glenn lived in a little house near the elementary school, and most of the time you could find someone there to shoot the shit with. Or drink a beer, if it was the weekend. We were 22 and 23 and 26, young men, young enough to still get together on the weekends. We played a lot of poker. Listened to a lot of Metallica. Watched a lot of college football and talked a lot about high school football—Go Bearcats.

The last time I saw him was maybe ten years ago. My father and I were driving the backroads of our little town. Glenn and Floyd T (you all know who Floyd T is) were out looking for one of Floyd’s cows. It was a Saturday morning, if I remember correctly, and Floyd had called Glenn to help him find a cow and, of course, Glenn came.

That was Glenn. It’s what I like to think of as the mark of a man—if you needed him, he was there. We call it being a man of your word. Being trustworthy. Being kind. Being good. Being a good man.

What I’m trying not to remember on this rainy Tuesday morning is that sometimes there’s no one you can call to help find yourself. Sometimes you’re lost and can’t find your way back.

I don’t know what happened, or why, and I suspect I never will. I find it best not to speculate, at least not at my age, because I might find a reason I could understand. I might, after two cancer surgeries, find something that resonates. That makes suicide look like a viable option.

I do know that the world will break you down, friends. It will beat you and kick you and leave you for dead and then it will walk around your dead corpse on the sidewalk. I don’t know why we don’t talk more about how hard it is. Even with a good job. Even with a family. Even with everything, sometimes it’s just too hard, and I don’t know why we don’t tell each other our sad stories anymore, or why we don’t remember them when we do.

So, I don’t know, hug one another. Try to be kind. Know that everyone struggles. I won’t say you’re not alone, but you’re not alone in feeling alone. We’re always inside our own heads, so it’s often hard to see out. To see others. To see ourselves from someone else’s perspective.  

Anyway, I don’t have any words of wisdom. Do whatever it is you do to deal with whatever it is you deal with. I hope I haven’t added to your sadness—I just needed to not feel alone right now.