Today is the 4th anniversary of the worst day of my life. And so, I spend part of the day in mourning. Mourning with the sadness that only someone with a Black Dog can understand.
Four years ago today was a Sunday. Mother's Day.
I was sitting in my apartment when my cell phone rang. It was the police. I thought something horrible had been done by or had happened to one of my daughters. Instead something happened to my sister. She was riding her brand new Ducati motorcycle. A small girl on a big bike. She swerved to avoid someone sprinting against the light across 12th Avenue and flipped the bike on top of herself and was crushed to death.
The police didn't want to tell me on the phone. But I figured out she was dead. They came to my apartment with the "effects" she had on her. A wallet. A couple rings. Some keys. That was it.
The next day I walked to the Morgue and identified her body. That was the last I saw of her.
I was unemployed at the time. I had impetuously quit the highest paying job I'll likely ever have because my boss fucked with me. I was unemployed with a freshly dead sister.
Today, I have one of the best jobs in the advertising business. And everyone's healthy. Thank god.
Horrible things can happen to you.
People can lie to you.
Treat you like shit.
You can feel like taking a one-way swim in the East River.
Instead, something holds you back and you keep moving.