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| I'd practically forgotten that he was an alcoholic.
Fuckin' pity party for me, right?
Right.
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| I never seem to talk to you anymore. Kelsi still talks to you. It's been so long now I can hardly even figure out how to talk to you anymore. You've been pushed to the back.
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| Long time no see, eh? First thing's first: I don't know how this Xanga thing works anymore. So it goes...
I went to the cemetery today. I went to visit Nick Dennis and was reminded of so much. As it turns out, I'm still not a big fan of death. As I stood over Nick's grave, I felt something, of course. I felt pain at the thought of his tragic death. Who shoots an eleven year old boy?
Before leaving, Kyle dug out a newspaper clipping from a couple of days after. The article described more than I had ever actually known. It even included a transcript of the conversation John had with the police after he had killed them, before he killed himself. It included so much detail, right down to the street we live in, the name of my neighbor who had John's gun in safe keeping. Nick's mom bled to death right after the paramedics showed up...Nick was declared brain dead the next day and they pulled the plug on him...the dog and Lizette's boyfriend were dead when the paramedics arrived. All of this was there in the clipping. It brought me right back, 11 years.
I stood over Nick's grave and thought of this, but it wasn't enough. I thought of Sara, of Grandpa, of Mandy, and was hurt. These people weren't meant to die. Kyle said to me, "We were too young to lose a friend like this." I knew that what he said wasn't really important to me. You're always too young.
I looked up from the grave at what seemed like an endless expanse of grave markers and tombstones and began to walk. Intermingled within each other were men, women and children. Some died at 92, some at 45, some at 13, some at 2 days old. I thought to myself, behind every one of these stones is a story. I don't know who this man was, but someone did. Somebody loved him, and was hurt when he died. Every stone here is somebody's pain. Is the end to someone's story. Is a tragic occurrence in our world. I saw several stones showing multiple names for the same date. Was it a car accident? A fire? A murder? Where is your family? Please, tell me the story. Who was he? What did he do in his life? Who did he love? Did he even get the chance?
Today there are billions of people resting eternally beneath the ground, in the company of people they likely never knew, may not have even been alive at the same time as...did they have good lives? Did they ever find beauty?
I came across a gravestone unlike all of the others. It was a poured slab of concrete, on which somebody had written "Grandma Casey." Nothing else. This really struck me, and led me to create several stories in my head of who Grandma Casey might be. Could they simply not afford an expensive marker? Was this made by a young child and the family thought that it had more meaning coming from the child than from a company? Was there a family at all? Could it have been a child raised by a woman, and they had no one else? Perhaps Grandma Casey was all he knew. I just don't know. But I want to.
Death and I just don't get along.
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| It's official. Being in a city is depressing. It just makes you think about things not worth thinking about. It makes you lonely. It makes you materialistic. It makes you homesick. It makes you unmake yourself. I want to go back to the wilderness. I want to go home. Let this be my last simple sentence of this post. | | |
| I've got the address.
Scott Butters
PO Box 75
Yarker, ON, K0K 3N0
In other news, things are great.
I work all day, eat 3 square meals, hike several miles, have a beer or two, read by candlelight, and sleep a full 8-10 hours. What more could I ask for?
Well, not much more.
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