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Things lost to us.

I found a picture of you, o-o-oh
Those were the happiest days of my life
Like a break in the battle was your part, o-o-oh
In the wretched life of a lonely heart
- Back on the Chain Gang (Pretenders)

My neighbor is a small, energetic and youthful 70 years old.  A super-mystical Catholic, her “hair turned completely white when A. died.”

Yeah.  That about sums it up.  A.was her younger son — brilliant, creative, eccentric, and pretty good-looking.  Inside her house, there are photos of him as a dark-eyed baby with his father (also dead), with his mom reading to him and his brother at around age 4, and as an adult near the time of his death (25, maybe?)

He killed himself.  He would have been around my age, and we have his disintegrating copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar.  The inscription reads: “To A, on his beautiful 3rd.”

I look at my son and think, “No way is that happening to me.”  But you just never know.  My neighbor had a great relationship with him, according to her, but he was just… mentally ill.  Or was hiding something that made him loathe himself so much, he chose to die.

I didn’t ask, of course.  According to my dad, she couldn’t talk about A. for a few years after he committed suicide.  I would have liked to have known him.

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