He walked by my home for two years, going to and from school. His long blond hair, his white plastic-frame sunglasses, his hoodie, his ear buds in, as he listened to music. (I later learned reading his obituary that he loved music.)
I always thought when I saw him that he looked like he belonged in Southern California. One weekend last April, he walked out into the desert and ended his life with a gun. He would have graduated this May. He should have been preparing to go to college. In that moment of desperation, in the desert, he carried through the unimaginable.