Dear Austin,
After you died but before we buried you, during all the confusion, a fly infiltrated our house. Each comforting couch guest would mount their tears and launch into the death wake only to have their head harassed by the fly. I tried to take them seriously but it looked like they were shooing the sadness from their faces or failing at slapping themselves. This made me think of you, how we would laugh at this juxtaposition, like opening the cupboard after your suicide and seeing the World’s Best Dad coffee mug waiting to be filled. Sometimes I wish you were gently decomposing rather than all blasted apart. I wear your black Casio wristwatch with the rubber wristband, the only item of yours the ER nurse gave back that day. I’ve learned to tiptoe through the wreckage. Your mom bought me a punching bag to protect our belongings when the storms blow in, but I never put it together. I just fling the parts around the garage until I feel better. The psalm tells us the Lord is close to the brokenhearted. You have done what forty years of prayer couldn’t do. I know my soul because it aches.
