Since I started this blog, I’ve written about my experiences with change and the feelings that come up along the way. After a lifetime of journaling, therapy, songwriting, meditation, prayer and the deep, soulful conversations I enjoy with friends and family, I have merely transferred those thoughts and emotions to this new format. I’ve enjoyed doing this for myself and for anyone who cares to listen.
But how do I write about death?
Often, we hear “words cannot express” my grief. As humans, especially ones in a death-phobic culture, words seem to fail because we are little children around this topic. We resort to “I’m sorry” and “she’s in a better place,” etc.
So, Scott, what do you want to write?
In this moment my eyes are full of tears that are not ready to fall. We have lost a friend of our family, my daughter’s best friend, a thirty one year old, vibrant being who breathes no more.
I am writing this in Guatemala City. Weston’s body is a six minute walk from here and he will soon be transferred to San Diego where his mother and younger brother await his arrival.
He died because he went out onto a rooftop for a smoke and his head grazed a high voltage power line, killing him instantly.
Our daughter, Steph, and their other traveling partner, Becca, had to endure 12 hours without knowing where Weston was. We all assumed he had wandered off, but his wallet, phone and shoes were still by his bed at the hostel where they were staying.
Beth and I were walking into a school for a show when we received a text saying, “Weston is dead.” We turned around and two days later arrived in Guatemala to attempt to comfort and, eventually, bring these brave, shell-shocked, young women home to our place in the Catskills.
I have never, ever witnessed what I’ve seen in these 48 hours. Yes, I have been around some pain and grief, but never a tsunami of emotion like this. In fact, I have avoided it as much as possible given the tragedies and trauma of my adolescent years.
A tear is falling down my cheek, now, the result of staying with this feeling that I know so little about. It is hitting me as we wait for our cab to the airport.
I came here to help and I have, but I think I also came here to grieve, to discover what was lost. It’s something I need to know to be more fully human. Thank you, God, for protecting me from this for 63 years. Weston died on my birthday and his awful death is my rebirth. That is how I will honor him.
As Steph said, “to be a gentle man in this world is hard.” True.
