My friend Julio, who lived a life wracked with dark secrets, passed away today.
It is strange to think only six months ago we were walking, driving, hanging around the streets of Philadelphia. He gave me things, like William Zinsser's On Writing Well, because we both struggled with telling our stories. He cooked me meals in his small apartment when I visited. He was a lonely soul, like many of us.
I did not get to say goodbye to him one last time. I was too late. It's strange to know that someone is leaving, their time is up, and you will never see them again, never have another meaningful conversation with them again. And when they are gone, the world becomes an even lonelier place, because you have one less friend, and those are hard to come by.
The Amtrak train had just arrived when I heard he had passed away. I did not get on the train to Philadelphia, but walked around the streets of Boston until late in the evening, feeling an inescapable grief for my friend.
