We can laugh in harmony with the sound of brakes on a railroad track.

And then we can wholeheartedly appeal to our tradition of jocular behavior, us "friends," finding humour in everything.  But then what of sons Miller and Carlo, those sprouts who almost gained afteryear but instead lost potential? Each cast his kinetic buildup into the void.

A blight on a long awaited and otherwise joyful venture has formed into a dark blister.

You can leave your wall and hope that your brother or sister left her wall too.

And then reach for his or her skin bound appendages, because thats all they are.

All we are.
Bags of flesh.

And when we wrap ourselves around each other we become a collection of flesh -- more blood and bone to pour salt over.
more emotion and loss to sober up on.

So if we pretend for a moment that all we lost yesterday was a bag of flesh...
Will it make us feel better?
If we attempt to lessen what we see as the most important of all?


Life torn early,
Life most important,
Youth most treasured.

Shall we count our loss as one more and move on?

Are we destined to, in somber passing, occasionally remember the ones that failed to make this 12 year journey?

Should we have expected another suicide for another year?

And statistically, should we have prepared ourselves, in fear of another tragedy?

First a train then a shotgun, or a rope or a bottle of pills and now we are forced to compare the meat to the blood, the brain to the skull, the ***** to the white capped candy: the gore of it all.

In the end we will quantify our loss as a bag of flesh and inevitably feel this sadness scamper away into the depths of our crushed hearts and worrisome minds.

Because in the end that's all we are.

Bags of flesh.