All day long I thought of death. I thought of how I'd find Mikey lying alone in his apartment, stiff and cold. I thought about the phone call I'd make to the police. I thought about how I'd have to explain to them he has no family that cares to speak to him or have him around and would probably be glad he was dead. I thought about his belongings, where would they go? I thought about whether he'd even have a funeral or would they just cremate him as they do those without family or financial means? I thought if I'd ask for his ashes and where I'd scatter them. I thought about the tears I'd cry, the anger I'd feel, the regret for not having saved him, the hurt of losing a good friend, the hole in my life knowing he was gone.

I remember last summer, a Saturday, when he and I drove to Yellow Springs so he could visit his parent's gravesite. How we knelt down and pulled weeds from around the headstones, how he spoke of them, how the hot sun beat down on our backs, how we laughed as we realized we were doing the same thing we basically did during the week, lawn care. How we drove by his old house just outside the cemetery on the outskirts of town, how he told me what it used to look like when he was a kid, how he rode his skateboard down the sloped driveway and busted his knee, how his military father didn't give a shit and his mother couldn't comfort his wounds because she died of cancer when he was young. How we went into the woods and found the actual Yellow Springs, bubbling with life. How we found a fallen tree trunk 60 feet away from the Springs, how we both lay down on the ground with our heads on the trunk and fell asleep for about an hour while tourists and hikers walked by no doubt wondering who these two idiots were. How we didn't care.

How he showed up one day with a terrible black eye and told me he fell. How I knew it was a lie, because he knew if he told me who did it I'd beat the hell out of 'em, because he is a peaceful man, rarely raised to anger. How he told me how proud he was of me when I told him I was quitting the smoking, drinking, doping.....the hug he gave me, the first time he said "love you man."

After work today I drove to his apartment, my wife silent beside me, knowing my thoughts and fearing the same as I. I bounded out of the SUV, made her stay and locked the doors, told her to keep it running, it's a bad neighborhood he lives in. I took the steps by twos to his door, took a deep breath and pounded hard, calling his name. Nothing. A downstairs door opened, some guy looked out, saw the look in my eyes and slammed the door shut. I waited a few seconds, my heart trying to bust open my ribcage, and pounded again. Nothing. My hands shook as I took the keys out of my pocket and just as I was about to open his door, it swung wide and there he stood, shirtless, smelling unbathed, looking like a skeleton, hollowed eyes encircled with black rings, hair in a ponytail as usual. I grabbed him and pulled him to me tightly for a moment, then in anger I stepped back and grabbed his unshaven face with both hands and said "What the fuck man?!?"

He said "I'm sorry, did you think you'd find me dead?" And I said "What the hell do you think? I've been worried all damn day, calling you, texting you".....then I lost my ability to speak. He kept saying he was sorry he didn't mean to worry me, that he had turned his phone off (he knows I know he was lying about that but I didn't offer rebuttal).

Turns out he's been mad dope sick, spent his whole paycheck on boy. I knew it.

I pulled him to my breast and held him close. I told him he is like a brother to me. I told him to take care of himself. I asked if he needed anything. He said no.

I stepped back, walked to the door, turned and touched his face, told him I loved him.

I'm having a hard time coming down from the day.

I'd like to thank all of my friends who replied with concerns, thoughts, and prayers.