When Amir didn't come home on August 12 as planned, I didn't think much of it. He was often late. I always told myself he was out on a mission- like my own personal secret agent. I laughed to myself quietly at that thought as I filled the cat dish with food. I sat on the counter and watched him do his usual three-kibble taste test when there was a knock at the door

It startled calvin and he ran off to hide behind the sofa. Filled with curiosity, I hopped off the counter and walked to the door. I looked through the peephole only to find that which every person who loves a soldier fears the most. I slid the door chain open and turned the lock. I couldn't breathe as I pulled the door open.

I stared in silence at the two uniformed officers. "I understand English is your first language", one of the men said, as he took off his hat, almost as if he were ashamed. I replied only with a slight nod. "Are you Delilah?" I choked back the thoughts and tears and once again replied only with a nod.

"I am very sorry to have to inform you..." The words ran together as I fell to my knees. The other man picked me up and carried me to the sofa. "These were among his belongings..." I looked up again the first man held out a plastic marked "Amir Yohansen." I swallowed hard as I opened it. His dog-tags. I began to cry. His wedding ring, a picture of us. It hurt even worse knowing that he loved me so much.

I pulled out a little white sealed envelope. The front read "To my beloved Lilah." I opened it only to find four lines:

Talk of a beautiful place,
A place we'll all be soon,
My darling I will see you there,
Meet you there at noon.

I was confused. Noon? What happens at noon? I looked up at the still standing officers. Though my tears, I commanded them to sit down. I folded the note again and put it in my lap, guarding it with my hands. "What time did he..." I choked on my tears once again and couldn't finish. "08:00", sighed the now-sitting officer. "Then why noon?!" I demanded. "What happens at noon?!" I began to sob. Neither man said anything- it would seem they were as perplexed as I.

One must wonder, if those who are labeled crazy, really are. Those who spend their lives in a philosophical argument with themselves. Are they really crazy, or are they just trying to gain a better understanding over themselves and the world around them? It seems the extremely intelligent are the ones who end up being branded crazy, and as a direct result of that label have a harder time in life. My mum once told me that the mentally retarded were how prehaps God wanted all people to be. Another idea that I thought at the time was crazy, but in retrospect, they are honest, sincere, and unconditionally loving. In my 17 years of absolutly endless wisdom, I have yet to figure out why people are so cruel to them.

"We're just two lost souls swimming
in a fishbowl, year after year.
Running over the same old ground,
and how we found the same
old fears. I wish you were here."
-Pink Floyd

I don't understand the world, I don't think I ever will. Some people think they do, but I'm pretty sure they have even less of an understanding than the next man. Sometimes I wonder why I write. Even just the things I write in my notebook during the day. Why do people even keep diaries? Is it so they feel like there's someone else they can talk to?

My mum's friend Andrea believes that people have souls, and that the souls live several lives. My perception is that this is some form of beleif in reincarnation. She believes that young souls are the more careless, sometimes the cruel people, and the old souls are the nicest of people, and when a soul dies, it becomes an angel. For some time I thought she was absolutely insane. I stand in judgement too often, I think. I don't think she's crazy anymore. Quite to the contrary. I think my grandpa was an angel. She also thinks my mum is an angel. I've often wondered.

All the Christians and Catholics tell me that suicide is "the" mortal sin. Now maybe I'm just plain stupid, but I don't know where in the bible it says that. I've asked several people, gotten conflicting stories, but never a straight answer. I've heard "It's there," and "It's something preachers tell people to scare them away from suicide". It's my thought, though, that God in all of his greatness understands that we, as humans, have a certain threshold for pain, at which we will break, one way or the other. But, if it's true what they say about God being able to see the future, then why would he allow things to happen to a person that he knew would cause them to reach that point, if he intended to just send them to hell for it? I've noticed that suicide is a plague among the brilliiant. It's as if to die by one's own hand is seen the final act of intelligence, or prehaps the blade of the final cut is guided by a more powerful hand than one's own.

Some days I remember more about my grandpa, and for some reason the next day it can be gone as quickly as it came. I see now, only in retrospect, how sick he was, and that it was incredibly obvious. I regret every moment that I didn't spend with him. For some reason I'm still angry with my parents for not letting me see him before he died. It's on the days I do things I know are wrong that I feel the farthest from him. According to my gramma, he's just a prayer away, but then again, she talks to stuffed animals. I'm pretty sure she's hallucinating, but I want to believe her. If she's right, he's not that far at all. Maybe through all this I'm the crazy one. It wouldn't surprise me.


"A voice is heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping.
Rachel is weeping for her children; she refuses to be comforted
for her children, because they are no more."
-Jerimiah 31:15

Sometimes the best thing for everyone involved is the hardest thing to do. Love under it's ideal definitition cannot be mitigated by anything, but rarely does love come in a pretty little box.

When I was little, my grandpa and I used to play in the garage and build things. Everything from birdhouses to flashlights in toilet-paper rolls. My grandma always thought that was "unsanitary", which made me want to do it all the more. As much as I know these words have potential to hurt people, I know they have potential to heal. I don't want to paint the world another story book, and I don't want to create some kind of illusion that my life is an unfortunate wreck. I want to share the life, mostly, of my grandfather, with the world. There are some memories that God put on this earth to be shared, remembered, and passed on. His life is one of them, and a very important one at that.

Every night before bed, my grandpa used to read me a book. He'd read it once, twice, three times, as many times as it took for me to fall asleep. He never got angry, or annoyed. He read every word as lovingly as the first. My mom has a friend named Andrea. She believes you have a spirit, and that it lives several lives. Young spirits are unwise, and they're the people who choose to lead lives that aren't what most consider ideal. I wasn't quite sure what to think of some of her beleifs until I heard this one. She says that when a spirit reaches the end of it's life, it becomes an angel. If she's right, my grandpa was an angel. There are so many things to be said about him, I don't even know where to start. Many of the things I know now about him I found out only after his death. He taught my brother and I everything about life, but he never taught us the hardest thing about life- letting go. His death left a void in the lives of everyone who knew him that will never be filled. Memories line the gap, but the pain remains, and some days it feels like the sadness will follow me forever. He wouldn't want that.

Oftentimes I sit and wonder what the world is like for other people. I mean, sure, there are the obvious things, like the differences between guys and girls, and the other basic stuff...but some people like foods, and colours that other people don't. I wonder just how different things really are for other people, if they don't see things the way I do at all. Prehaps that's why some people are sociopathic, they just have trouble understanding the world on an emotional level. Occasionally, when you trade souls with another person, they leave an impression- their eyes are just more pleading, and other times they give you a feeling- good or bad, that stays with you, and you're left wondering why. From my standpoint, life is all about interpretation. A rainy day can either be a sad and depressing time to stay inside, or a time to enjoy the time to yourself.

"Mark, you don't know what you're talking about. You just talk to hear yourself talk and feel like someone's listening."
For some reason, my uncle Terry to this day loves to torment my dad. It works. He can get him going like nobody else I know can. The big difference between my dad and Terry is that my dad knows what he's talking about, and he's usually right about it. I suppose that makes it mildly ironic because my uncle likes to talk, to hear himself talk, and thinks everybody in the room is hanging on his every word. Ocassionally, people smile and nod. After all is said and done, though, nobody really even remembers that he said anything. I'm pretty sure that's karma at it's finest.

Occasionally people at the lovely family gatherings remember that we all have a jugular and they become very interested in exactly how to tear through it, creating the most carnage possible. This never happened before my grandpa died. It usually starts with my uncle, going after my dad. It starts with small, quiet jabs, and as the wine dissappears, it turns to crude "your mom" jokes and loud insults. Of course, my dad always has a multitude of things to say in return, most of them true. Once again, a large difference between the two is that my dad can keep his cool and sometimes nobody but Terry, and sometimes everybody but Terry, realizes that he has just been gravely insulted. This usually evolves into my grandma trying to change the subject, and I guess she means well, but it always ends up creating some kind of problem, because my dad loves to make wisecracks, which are sometimes not exactly welcome. My brother and I try to be graceful as we laugh when grandma get frustrated with my dad.

Terry and my favourite aunt got married when I was about three. He's never been my favourite person. He's always talked to me like I was three. This has always offended me, as everybody else, even when I was three, has talked to me like an adult. I'm not quite sure when he got it out for my dad, but I imagine it probably happened about the time when my dad bared his teeth as he tried to steal the heart of his beautiful younger sister. If my dad thought him unworthy, he was right.

Humans are a cruel and vengeful species. I've often wondered where rumors like "If you swallow gum, it stays in your stomach for seven years" come from. I've decided it was most likely the work of a mean kid trying to scare the crap out of another kid. I also wonder how the second kid thought they test that theroy when he believed it and told all his best friends. It has been my expierence that throwing salt over your shoulder does not solve bad luck, but makes your luck worse, especially if somebody is behind you. Thing is, you make your own luck in life. If you just take what comes at you and make the best of it, you'll be a better person in the end. Many people don't care what kind of person they are in the end, they don't see who will care. For me it's a matter of approval.

For some reason that I have yet to fathom, people have an almost unfulfillable need for the approval of others. If everybody loves you, you might not really notice it, but if you've ever felt alone, you know what I mean. It's one of those things that if you have to ask, you couldn't understand, and if you understand, you don't have to ask. I'd explain it to the world, but I dont understand that part of myself. I just know that a lot of times people are mean enough to know you want their approval and hold their standards just above what they know you can do. They won't know how badly this can hurt a person until it's too late.



"Payback is a bitch, revenge is sweet."