to grieve with another, for another

So Baltazar died.

He killed himself.

We weren't close friends.  We were more like friendly acquaintances, if I'm honest-- he was close friends with my close friends.  But, we knew each other.

I don't know why he did it.  I'm not sure anyone does; I'm not sure anyone ever will.  He had everything; he had youth and love and a future he was continually building with his beloved fiance.  What darkness compelled him to end it all, I can't fathom.

So I weep for him-- what tragedy that his mind called it all off in spite of the great washes of happiness surrounding him.  But so much more, I weep for his fiance, his young widow; I weep for his friend-- my friend-- I weep for the great devastation he has left behind.

---

I'm really messed up about the whole thing.

More than I think I should be.

More than I think I have the right to be.

I didn't lose a fiance, a companion, a best friend, a son, a brother... I barely lost anything at all.  Yet, what a terrible vacuum in the space he once occupied in the minds and hearts of everyone he touched.

If there is one glaring, fatal flaw in my design, it is that my heat loves wholly, and bleeds dark for those around me.  As stoic and unfeeling as I pretend to be, my empathy is profound beyond my control.

I am hurt, I am angry, I am confused.

I am overwhelmed and struck.

I keep crying.  I keep choking.  I can't breathe, the grief is so thick in my lungs.

His fiance, his widow, the first words she said to us at the chapel were, "You guys were supposed to be at my wedding, not his funeral."  That statement will haunt me for some time.

Now alone, she's tasked with not only the immense loss, but to adjust to a new life on her own.  It is confusing, and difficult.  I am reminded, of all things, of a line written in Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, wherein Will's grandmother (a widow) comments regarding her late husband: "The remembering is easy... it's those days when I forget he's gone that I can't stand."

---

The service was lovely, but different.  Unfamiliar.

Most of the (few) funerals I have attended have been for elderly relatives.  There is a great sadness, to be sure, but it is underscored with soft sighs of relief.  "It's time, it's over, now to rest."

Baltazar was, I believe, the youngest body I have ever seen, and the only one to die of his own volition.  I looked upon his carefully preserved and recreated body lying stiffly in the casket, decorated in his familiar leather jacket, wire-rimmed glasses and carefully combed-back hair.  It is a strange experience.  The mortician applies heavy layers of makeup and delicately conceals the seams holding everything in place, and ultimately this husk, this shell, resembles your memory of the person you've now lost.  I look upon the body, and as always, it is simply not that person anymore.  They are gone.

The pastor opened by explaining that he and Baltazar shared a common ancestor, and so were family.  He had baptized him as a baby, and now spoke at his wake.

Immediately following this introduction, he reminded all of us, repeatedly: Do not blame yourselves, do not feel compelled by guilt, it's not your fault, it's not anyone's fault.  I've never heard that said to such a large group of people before.  It gave me chills.

When people got up to speak, to share their stories, these are the parts of a service that hit my viscera.  I never-fail lose it when I hear a grown man's voice crack as he begins to cry mid-sentence.  Someone tells a story with a funny little punchline, and everyone laughs briefly, and in that space immediately afterward the immense sadness is suddenly compounded, and I lose my shit again.

There was an incredible quantity of photographs, but a tragic lack of variety: he did not get to live a whole life.  There was so much potentially ahead of him, but there will never be new photos now.

---

What if something happened to Scott?

What if something happened to Jessica?

What if either of them abandoned ship of their own accord?

How would I cope?  Would I ever recover?  Would I go about the rest of my days all broken and gray?

I think about these things all the time-- probably much more than I should-- but never before have I been so confronted with these worries.

It was always impossible, because we have all always been invincible.


But we're not.

We're frail.

---


I have not truly suffered a loss myself, here, but I am close enough to it that the repercussion has hit me hard.  So hard, that the impact itself is bewildering and difficult for me to comprehend.  Part of me is scrambling to find what evidence of him is left online.  His facebook pages were taken down immediately, but there are other traces of him still.  I found my own photographs of him, taken at parties years ago.  I pore over them, and keep asking them for an explanation.  Anything to try and make sense of this mess.  Anything to help tame down these emotions that, for the time being, have such a stranglehold on my sensibilities.

I am hurt, I am angry, I am confused.  I am at a loss.  I am heartsick.

I am sorry.  And I am reminded to remind everyone who should know, that I love them with all my heart.