I found out today that an old friend of mine put a shotgun to his head. While the blast scattered the demons howling in his skull, I imagine they found new homes in the hearts of the loved ones he left behind.
When I heard the news, all I could think about was kick-ball, four square and tetherball –– the games we used to play together during recess growing up.
As the years passed we’d chat from time to time, but not nearly enough. And, eventually, things ended as most childhood friendships do –– we lost touch with one another.
As kids, I remember him smiling a lot.
Shame on me for assuming he would grow up to be a smiling adult too. After all, you know what they say about assuming.
If I could, I would go back in time before he pulled the trigger and ask him out to lunch. I would tell him when the demons cry he could come talk to me.
I would tell him that he meant something to me and the rest of the world and that I think he should stick around a little while longer.
But, most of all, I would tell him that I’m sorry and that if I had it to do all over again, I would work harder to mend the deep cracks his smile was covering up.
I’m sorry, T.S.
By Cole Schafer.
P.S. Keep the kick-ball warm while you're away.