It is Sunday morning and it is happening again: that tightness in my chest that I cannot unclench, the weight on my head that I cannot tip to one side and let fall to the floor. I am thinking about dying again. Today’s trigger? My wife’s left hand. We are sitting in church, and she is sitting two seats to my right, our son between us. Her arm is around him, and I am holding her hand, and my brain, ignoring the usual feelings of warmth and love, instead fixes itself to this phrase. “Someday she will die, and you will never see her hand again. You will wish you could come back to this moment, but you won’t be able to. Furthermore, you’re wasting it right now thinking about dying.”
So of course the next thing I think about is Jason Grilli.