I sit here at the computer looking at Chris on the desktop, standing above a sea blown cliff in New Zealand. I took the picture. But he is not here. He is dead. They burned his body to ash but if they didn’t and I touched him he would feel cold. Clammy. Dead. I was there to watch his last heart beat, the very last one, the last one in his life and I couldn’t do anything. I’m his father and I couldn’t do anything. Jesus Christ, I couldn’t do anything. My son is dead. I only have his pictures, souvenirs like the sweater I bought when we were in New Zealand. Dead. Dead cold and clammy to the touch; flesh looking purple; no life; not moving; a lump. My son was a lump. I saw his last heartbeat, the very last one, forever. Forever and ever and ever. I will never see him again. I will never hug him again. I will never lean on him for support, ever again. The circle is broken. Twisted and broken. I can’t sing the song anymore to him or to anyone else.
(On hearing the song, Will the Circle Be Unbroken)