Well, not really a stranger.  This fellow, Rick Marques, found dead in his apartment yesterday – he kissed my hand last week and told me what a gentleman he is (or was, I suppose). He was handicapped due to a motorcycle accident, had a hot temper and a kindness linked to an essential personality revealed by brain injury. I let him into the building, he said he wanted to buy somewhere else, get out of here. He wanted out.

Now he’s gone and everyone’s scared, doesn’t know what to think. it’s over now, the tape is up around the whole place. Uniformed officers prowl around with bright gloves over their hands and newshounds crouch, waiting for something to happen. his death is ruled suspicious, no forced entry. We were all interviewed. No, we didn’t hear anything that night. Sunday night? we painted the apartment, Nigella Lawson Blue, you know – like the packaging.

Groceries were delivered, it was like christmas. But the shadow again hangs. He was found dead on Easter Monday. I guess it won’t smell like smoke in the hallway anymore.

Every day when I came home, I looked in his window to make sure he was okay. What will we do now?

Was he a stranger? No, he was a neighbour. Someone I knew because he was in my community – my communality was shared by this and many others-  he was someone I knew. Not well, but he was more than just a couple photos on the local news.

this is a tragedy.