In writing that last journal entry, I remember that one of the people who helped us move the drafting table was my neighbor’s son Ben. I barely knew him, but he sure was helpful, and genuinely enjoyed carting the table into our home and down two flights of stairs. This is the same Ben who later committed suicide. I couldn’t call up my memory of him at the time I learned of his death, but now I’ve stepped right into the middle of it.
I’m not sure whether to think of this as a landmine or a forgotten patch of flowers, here in the untracked forests of my mind. At least now I know where it is.