I dreamed of Toby’s spirit last night. When he came near to show me his death I was frightened and I did not want him in my loft. I tried to ask him why, why did he do this, but I did not let him close enough to listen. Maybe I didn’t really want to hear the answer. I could hear his footsteps outside on the deck. I realized then that I needed to forgive him for what he had done. I need to be at peace with him in his death as I was with him in his life. I am not ready for this yet, though, and so his spirit will continue to haunt me. I am not ready to let him go so easily. I am having a hard time finding respect for his method of leaving this world. I am having a hard time accepting that he is even gone at all. It is difficult to reconcile the fact that he is gone with the fact that I expect to see him walking around here all the time. I expect and rely on him to be here, working, smoking his cigarettes out on his porch, coming by my cabin after work to smoke the nargilah and drink scotch every now and then. This is all gone, all of what he was, and I still can’t quite understand that. It hurts terribly when I do. It’s hurts and I don’t want to hurt anymore and so I am pushing it away. I don’t want to be angry with him, and I don’t want to be frightened of his spirit. But I am not ready yet to be at peace with the self-destructive violence of his death–because its shrapnel is still tearing into my heart.