Every time I come home from work in the afternoon and see the flicker of her porch light shining in the bright sunlight, I think she’sleft it on so the angels know where to touchdown if they ever feel like bringing a little extra healing into someone’s life. Or so they know where his spirit lies, so they can bring him home to a place more filled with life than he ever was. As if that little sparkle of light is a beacon of hope—or maybe one crying out for peace when all this world is a dark, dark place. Whenever I pull up along the curb, and lookover to see his car all I can see are the ghosts that consume the inside. Wonder if his handprints are still faintly sprawled across the steering wheel ,or if even knew that those last breaths he was taking were going to be his ending. My mind keeps spinning around in circles, trying to decide if the form of his body on his car seat was full of anything but need when he shot those drugs up his arm, heaven in a needle. Did he know that that day, those moments were going to be his last? Or did he want them to be? What demons haunted him when he fell asleep at night? Was it a life full of broken shards of humanity sprawled across a lonely existence? Did he find beauty in anything but the high he felt when elevated on the clouds of the mind? Even though I didn’t know him, I feel now that he’s gone I feel his spirit more every day that passes when I look at the vehicle he left earth in. And a part of me aches, whishes I could waltz over there, find his mother, and bring her comfort. Because every time Isee that porch light on, I know somewhere deep in my soul that she must befilled with a cracks deeper than any earthquake could cause. I’m sorry ma’am for your loss. That you had to see and angel sent to the heavens sooner than you wanted. I’m sorry that you had to know the joy of birth and the sting of death.That you had to bury someone you loved. And each day I see your house, I will be reminded of the story you leave here, leave behind new every day. I sense something. I know it to be true. A hard life carved in those concrete porch steps. Children’s love sprawled on the front door in marker. A house that swells when it breathes. I wish I was an angel, so I could bring your son back. For now, just know that I am listening, each morning, hoping to hear a laugh, echo in your garage.