the dripping dream

     Not long after I arrived at the City Club this morning, I got a text from my friend Joey Morin that said "Nick Preston shot himself this morning." I immediately pried him for some more details, and soon realized that Nick Preston was dead. 
     I've known Nick fairly well for a larger portion of my life. Growing up, I was close friends with his older brother Mike, and while Nick and I were never close friends, we saw each other often via Mike and had a well-natured report and respect for one another. When we were kids, their father was the sherrif of Schuyler County. And for the last few years, Nick had taken his father's role as the sherrif. Until this morning. 
     By all appearances, I always thought that Nick was the most well-adjusted member of the Preston household. You couldn't meet and spend any amount of time with the cat and go away thinking that he was anything but well,adjusted with a clearly sharpened mind about him. So when I had heard this morning that he had taken his own life, I was fucking gobsmacked. Still am, to tell the truth.
     My heart is deeply sadened, as well. I can almost channel his family's utter despair and fear. I know it well. I seem to feel all of those wretched feelings via a flood of memories each and everytime I hear of the violent loss of life, whether it's someone I knew well, or whether it's the most recent school shooting halfway across the country - my mind and my emotions go very presently to that golden-russet October afternoon in 1992 when my grandmother was murdered. The moment of transition when I truly lost my innocence for the first time, the fact the people wouldn't stop wishing me well when all I wanted was for them not to talk to me for a very long time, the way I felt that there was no longer any love anywhere, and how I felt like there was always someone following just behind me with a weaopn.
     My heart goes out to his family. I need to call his brother.