"This post contains material that may be disturbing to some readers. Viewer discretion is advised."
Still reading? Okay. You've been warned.
I’ve been obsessing lately. Wondering. Thinking about the moment that the police arrived. Who called them, and why? How did they know something was wrong? Did someone notice he wasn’t coming and going? Could the person below him tell there had been no movement in his apartment? Was the cat meowing continuously? Did she lick his face to try and make him wake up? Was the TV left on for unusual amounts of time? Did it smell bad? What did the police do? Did the manager let them in? Did they have to break down the door? What did he look like? Did his apartment smell bad? How did the cat survive? Did it look like a scene from CSI? Was their Caution - Crime Scene tape draped around the balcony and parking lot? Was the tarp over his body white? Black? Yellow? Did someone have to identify him? Was anyone there who knew him, loved him, to say goodbye?
Still reading? Okay. You've been warned.
I’ve been obsessing lately. Wondering. Thinking about the moment that the police arrived. Who called them, and why? How did they know something was wrong? Did someone notice he wasn’t coming and going? Could the person below him tell there had been no movement in his apartment? Was the cat meowing continuously? Did she lick his face to try and make him wake up? Was the TV left on for unusual amounts of time? Did it smell bad? What did the police do? Did the manager let them in? Did they have to break down the door? What did he look like? Did his apartment smell bad? How did the cat survive? Did it look like a scene from CSI? Was their Caution - Crime Scene tape draped around the balcony and parking lot? Was the tarp over his body white? Black? Yellow? Did someone have to identify him? Was anyone there who knew him, loved him, to say goodbye?
These questions always hit
me quickly, unexpectedly, and send me into a kind of zone. Suddenly, I snap back and find myself driving, or mid-sentence, or trying to take minutes in a meeting.
Today I was
called back to reality mid-drive by a tiny cloud, daring to be pink in an otherwise dark
morning sky. As I shook off my
post-mortem-obsessed fog, I remembered a day a few weeks ago when I saw an
unusually beautiful sunrise on a similar, early drive to work. I was so moved by it that I posted this
message on my older brother, Rene’s, Facebook page:
That moment had been meaningful because Rene had requested that song be added to our memorial DVD
about Greg. He remembered visiting Greg
and Kim in California years ago, and sitting in Greg’s car in the garage
with the song cranked up to show off the stereo.
And guess what
song started again today, as that thought was occupying my mind? Yup. It
could have been any song from my iPod.
It could have been any song from the DVD. I would have known Greg was there, hitting
play. But it was that song. There was no mistaking it then.
It so perfectly
describes him. He was caught in his own
Hotel California, a prisoner of his own device. His mind was Tiffany-twisted (although his was a Mustang, not a Mercedes). Despite trying, he couldn’t kill the beast and, in the end, the
beast killed him.
No one will ever
convince me that he’s not up there, watching us through clear eyes, smiling a
bright and healthy smile. He checked out
about two months ago, but he’ll never leave our hearts.