From the Private Journal of Alexander Miers
The funeral was nice, in the way most funerals are nice. Is there such thing as a bad funeral? I held onto his mother as she threw dirty into her son's grave and noted how unlikely it was that she would even see the next year. She's old and frail, a mix that in and of itself can be fatal, but more than that, she's had a hard life. Aaron did not come from a rich family. There are whispers that H1N1 will be back for fall, and I cannot imagine her surviving the battle. More than that, though, the grief is so etched onto her that it very likely may eat her from the inside out. Medical experts say you cannot actually die from things like heartache or grief or fear or boredom, but I have been the one to sit at the bedsides of those people and I am here to say it is entirely possible. His widow was in a bad way, too but she had their children. Aaron started later than me, only one of the three is full grown. Two are teenagers yet, a boy and a girl that will have to negotiate high school without a father. It is irrational but I was tempted to bring them all home with me, to pick up where Aaron left off. I am their Godfather, but from another country, what can I do? Still, I am working on convincing Gabriella to get out of Mexico. It is not safe for them, for anyone. The kids were born here, Gabriella has a green card. Still, she wants to be near her husband. She wants to pick up where he left off, continue to take a stand against the violence. I admire her for it, and I cannot say that if I was in the same position I would not do the exact same thing, but I am also aware of how stupid it is. They will not be satisfied with just Aaron if his widow causes the same amount of fuss. Their children do not need to be orphans, not yet.

Mostly, though, this whole mess has left me feeling exposed. It is more than an emotional problem; it has turned physical so that I feel as though someone has ripped out a part of me. Everything good I have done, I owe to Aaron and now he is gone. It is all so ironic: I am the one that is supposed to be used to death. I did this for a living. I told people how to grieve, how to deal and now that it is my turn I found myself in a chipped bathtub in the home of my dead best friend, staring at my feet because the book I brought to distract me is too lighthearted. It was raining when I got back in last night to rain and it has yet to truly stop. It is fitting to my mood, to my whole demeanor. A part of me wants to call Kat and tell her to get off tour and come back home: There are more important things than chasing fame. That same part wants to tell her to keep going, to follow her dream and never give it up until she has ran out of fuel to burn it. It is a contradiction, to say the least and it runs deep enough for me to feel the same about Dmitris and Iason. My misguided son and my lost little brother, both taking up residence in a city that is supposed to be all sun but I have only seen bring problems. Some days, I wish I had never allowed Dmitris to go. He should have finished college, settle down. Broadway would have been better, the actors do not seem to suffer as much but what do I really know? And who was I to deny him his dream and his talent? I suppose I can only pray for him and be there when he asks for me.

It is time for me to work, but I am reluctant. I am not ready to take on the city's problems when I have so many of my own but if I do not, who will? I suppose that is the yoke I am to bare.



When he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
-- William Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet, Act iii, Sc. 2