Red's Wrap

I was in the parking lot of a youth center where I’d just finished an evaluation meeting when my cell phone rang. My former boss, who probably hadn’t called me on the phone in ten years, tracked me down to tell me that my old boyfriend had died. He had committed suicide. He had shot himself in the head while sitting on the curb in front of his apartment. Twenty-five years had passed between the suicide attempt he made while we were dating and the shot that ended his life.

I went to the funeral with my old boss. We drove there together in my convertible. It seemed life-affirming and upbeat to speed along the freeway, sunglasses and visor on. My boss worried that he hadn’t worn a hat, the wisps of his hair blowing in the wind as he recounted his last episode of skin cancer.  It had always…

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