I was a ballroom dance teacher. I met with my students weekly, usually for a standing appointment. One evening my student was late—and he was never late. I called his home and was astounded that a policeman answered the phone. I told him why I was calling, and he told me that my student had shot himself and was dead.
He seemed as unprepared and shocked to be saying these words as I was to be hearing them. Nothing more to be said. Call over.
“Charles” was not my loved one, but he was a liked one—a nice man I danced with, smiled with, talked to. I cannot imagine the pain of his family and close friends if I, simply his dance teacher, still think of him often, and with such sadness.