It’s hard for me to think about him, because I always wind up imagining his last moments. I start off thinking about his smile, that crazy shit eating grin. I remember his hair, and how it always flopped over into his eyes, those eyes that look just like my father’s. He always threw me the highest in the pool, and the memories of that giddy, terror filled flight makes me happy. I always landed safely, and trusted that I always would. I trusted him. And then, inevitably, I remember. The soul crushing grief he must have been feeling, the overwhelming weight of his pain. I wonder, did the barrel of the gun cut the roof of his mouth? Did the taste of the gun oil make him gag, or was he too far gone down the dark hallway of his despair to even notice? The memorial service was so packed with people that many had to stand along the walls, and out into the vestibule. It struck me then that he had so many who loved him, so many friends crowding around in their grief, and he was all alone. Just like he felt when he was still breathing.