When we lived on the farm I remember having a dream about my father. He was an eagle gliding high over the petty landscape, not a sharp predator but a gracious glider. Knowing all, he would gently bank into the thermals wisely looking down and once removed from the scurry. Then a farmer shot him. He fell from the sky and lay in a broken heap on the ground. A nightmare; my untouchable father reduced to a clump of broken wings and feathers. A lump. I felt a horrifying awakening that no one can be really safe. No amount of wisdom and insight can provide insulation for the real world. That’s it, the real world. Real. No one is untouchable. And so it went with Chris. When everything was lined up for a warm and caring intimacy, a slash from nowhere with no morals attached ended him. Just ended, not compromised, not weakened, but ended. Ended forever. Forever. It’s dizzying, like gliding a thermal.
