The old man with long, brown and grey-streaked hair stood outside the train station muttering to the world.
It was three degrees. I could feel it, because I took my gloves off to check the temperature on my iPhone.
I could feel that familiar sting of air with barely a few degrees to it in spite of the bright sunshine overhead.
I could hear his words clearly, as I walked closer to the man.
“I don’t belong here anymore,” he said in a thin tenor to start the verse.
“You don’t know what they’re like, you don’t have a single clue,” he continued.
“I’m actually all right, all right,” he finished, as if practicing the words to a garage-rock song for a Friday-night pop-up show.
My uncle Peter killed himself when I was 15-years-old.
It still haunts me 25 years later.
I’ve never really gotten over his death, because as a family, we never really discussed it.
This was in part our Ukrainian culture and the superstitions that came over the ocean with my grandparents, partly our religious beliefs and partly my age at the time.
All I ever really knew about the circumstances that led to his death was that he was a lonely man, in spite of having a loving, supportive family and that he struggled with depression.
Last week an old friend and former colleague from my newspaper days in Missoula, Montana, the indefatigable humorist, baseball lover and writer of Fatuous Twaddle, Jaime Kelly, ended his life in his car in a park in Missoula.