We did not find him hanging in a tree. Dead. We found him hanging in a tree. Alive.

Hey, little bird, fly away home, your house is on fire, and you children will burn.

Timing is everything.

Last night was Christmas eve. We could not find Joel.

We never call the cops. Never ever ever ever. But I had to do it.

At first, I couldn’t figure out what was missing (besides Joel). I went outside to the garden shed with a flashlight. The big rope was gone.

Intellectually, I write a lot about suicide and choice. In practice, I get scared. I am a pussy.

At seventeen, I am not sure that Joel fits neatly into the container of informed consent.

The cops arrived with dogs.

I make sure we always have at least 20 flashlights, that they work, and that the batteries are new. We go through a lot of batteries.

We formed a long line and started walking through the woods. Flashlights glinting in bouncing imbecility“Come on, Joel. Joel we are here for you. Joel, where are you. Joel, are you out there.”

The dogs found Joel hanging naked from a tree. AIDS dementia is not a fucking joke.

He was still breathing. But barely. We cut him down. We were almost too late.

The cops handcuffed him. Why you would you handcuff someone who was not conscious is beyond my ability to understand. I objected to the handcuffs. I got told to shut the fuck up.

We made it to the nearest ER. Joel was revived. He was not pleased with that. An ambulance arrived. They stuffed Joel into the vehicle and away we went.

The nearest psych lockdown ward was about seventy miles away. The trees and the stars and the moving shadows were like Ash Wednesday on  a Thursday traveling like light on a clear cold night of unrepentant doom.

Today is Christmas. Joel isn’t going anywhere. Either am I.

The smell of the ward is antiseptic but made from varnish.

Hey, little bird, fly away home, your house is on fire, and you children will burn.

The moans and cries echo and bounce off the walls like prisoners wince in aromatic pain. Up and down the hall of sentient voices and all their second selves. Joel even breathes in agitation. I want to know how a seventeen-year-old kid deserves this. Christmas is making it real hard.

I kiss his forehead.

The other boys outside in the parking lot will wave at his window. Not really knowing if Joel is there.

I want to evaporate.

The purple bruises around his neck are wheel guards. Just sleep, Joel. I will be here when you wake up. I do not know what else to do. I am alone with a madman.

Who is, in fact, a child.

It is my fault.

I was trying to put together something of a Christmas. It is not a life preserver. It is a buoy. Bobbing up and down the watchman that is the sea.

I did not see it coming.

Hanging. Hanging. Hanging from a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

Your lips. Your forehead.

Boy, it came so close. Too close. Close by inches.

The secret drawbridge had been raised and there was no way I could jump across to the other side which was a maelstrom of flaming omens hiding in the attic of the almshouse.

Even illuminated by the flashlights in the woods where we could see our breath, in his swinging back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth, his volatile nakedness was begrudging, and did not want to be discovered. Joel was beautiful. He is still beautiful and breathing. I am pounding my stupid head against the wall attempting to figure out what I can do so this does not happen again. And again. And again. And again.

I decide to speak to Joel. He cannot hear me through the density of the fog.

“Joel, I never tell you how much I love you. We all love you. We are the only umbrella you have. Joel, this is a wasting vortex. An outrage. I am so angry with you. You punch me in the gut and I am doubled over. What Christmas. You are my precious stone. My life is barren without you. This dementia is a final grievance. You are playing tricks among the travelers. A shell game of borrowed time.”

Hey, little bird, fly away home, your house is on fire, and you children will burn.

I stand at the window almost numb. I cannot cry. I am cried out at every funeral I have ever gone to, and we are talking about a lot of funerals. It is still dark and the other boys are standing in the parking lot waving at someone who is breathing and fast asleep.

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