Dan

i’m trying to cry.
I sit on the floor
Next to the closet
In a dark room
And try to cry
For a friend who died
By his own hand.
I remember the last time
I saw him
And how we talked
About ourselves
And our futures.
We had the same illness
Coursing through our veins
And our mind,
But handled it differently.
Dan was younger than me
And I thought, more resilient.
He was a comfort to me
That day.
It’s been three hours
Since his mother called
With the news.
I’m stunned.
I’m so sad
For Dan,
For his family
And all his friends
Who loved him
As much as I did.
I hold my head in my hands
And close my dry eyes.
I can hear his voice
And his laugh.
I remember meeting him
At the hospital.
He came right up to me
And introduced himself.
He liked something I had said
In group
And asked me about it.
We stayed there
In the smoking area
And talked through
The next two groups.
I came to think of him
As a little brother
And when we were released
We went out for a beer
And talked about ourselves
And our futures.
There was never a doubt
As to either.
That’s something that survival gives you.
Confidence.
I raise my head
And press it against the wall.
I wish I had been there
In New York
In the cold of December,
To talk to him,
To encourage him.
But I’ve known the illness much longer
Than he
And assumed too much.
If only I had called
Or emailed
More often.
Then maybe.
If only I could cry
But I can’t.
So instead
I rise
And write this.