He was a sculptor. His body was found on the shore the next morning. Overnight, frost crystallized on the ends of his hair, his lips, the inside of his ear, his nostrils, his forefingers, his chipped fibula cracking through wax paper skin. The coroner said that the impact wasn’t enough to kill him outright, but that he had a heart attack during freefall. He had jumped off the Francis Scott Key Bridge.
When I see that picture I remember a whole summer of my life smudged and faded like chalk when your middle school teacher is too lazy to erase the blackboard completely, or the haze that clouds your mind for weeks, after a three-day acid bender riding across the state of Georgia, in your dad’s stolen car.