When you lose someone in a self-inflicted tragedy, you always wonder. You spend the rest of your life wondering. But when you lose someone in a self-inflicted tragedy and you're there with them when they pass, you spend the rest of your life, not wondering, not asking yourself a thousand questions, but remembering. You can't stop that memory from returning. You spend the rest of your days remembering. You remember their eyes, their mouth, the smell of the room, the last thing they said aloud. For Dan it was, "I won't be far." I remember thinking that he meant that he knew everything was going to be ok. But then I realized that he meant something so much more.
When I heard he was in the hospital, I didn't understand who was screaming until my father covered my mouth with his hand. That moment it was Dan who I thought I might lose forever and I wouldn't let anyone touch me again until I knew he'd live.
He didn't want to be cremated. He wanted to be buried with all his old rock records. Ron never knew what his son wanted. He always thought he knew better than anyone else, especially when he was drunk. He knew Dan was suicidal but he didn't care. I was supposed to be the suicide watch. And I think that he was disappointed in me that I couldn't save his son for him.
The shadows moved across my blanket, the wall behind me. People were just like that. We couldn't even see each other, just the shadows moving, pushed by unseen winds. What difference did it make if I was here or somewhere else? I couldn't keep him alive.
Dan, you used to make me smile; do you remember those days? Those days where we made root beer floats even if it was winter and played hooky every once in a while because you missed swinging on the swings with me. To this day, I can still feel close to the sky when I'm on a swing and I can feel you pushing me from behind. I won't keep talking about it because I'm supposed to be angry with you and I can't afford to break; I can't afford to cry.
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