But there were no charges filed. Bradford had been too careful, hadn’t broken any laws. He’d used other people’s words, links to anonymous websites. Not enough tracked back to him.
Before the boards got shut down, I occasionally went on them and checked for All_BS, but I didn’t find him. He could’ve changed his username, or changed to a different group, but somehow I don’t think so. For now, at least, I believe I’ve silenced him.
Joe and Sue met with attorneys who said that I might have gathered enough evidence for a civil suit. They’re discussing it, but Sue says she doesn’t have the stomach for the fight. It won’t bring Meg back, and right now, she says, we need not vengeance but forgiveness. I’ve thought a lot about Jerry’s sermon lately. I think Sue may be right. Though Bradford Smith isn’t the one any of us needs to forgive.
Tricia comes to my door, all dolled up in the new dress that she’ll freeze in and in heels that will get muddy on the trails. She looks pretty. She glances at Alice, she looks at me, she looks at the picture of Meg, the one of her and me as kids at the rodeo that I’ve left up on my wall. “Let’s do this thing,” she says.
x x x
We climb the trails of Pioneer Park into the small clearing in the woods. In the distance, I hear Samson barking. Rounding the corner, I spot Joe and Sue talking to people they’ve met in their suicide survivor group. The Seattle musicians are tuning their instruments. Scottie is playing Hacky Sack with Richard and Harry. Sharon Devonne and some other people Meg knew from school are talking to Mrs. Banks and her husband. Alexis and her fiancé, Ryan, now back from Afghanistan, each hold a hand of their little girl, Felicity. I’m a little surprised to see Tammy Henthoff here, standing alone. She catches my eye and we nod.
Ben is off to the side, looking down the hill. I follow his gaze to the rocket ship, and at the same time, we turn to look at each other. I don’t quite know how so much gets communicated in one look, but it does. Complicated and confused in a wholly fucked-up way is a good way to describe it. But maybe that’s just how love is.
Ready? he mouths.
I nod. I am ready. Soon the musicians will gather and play the Bishop Allen song about fireflies and forgiveness and I will eulogize my friend and we will scatter a bit of her to the wind. And then we will go down the hill, past the rocket ship, to the cemetery, to her grave, where a marker will say:
Megan Luisa Garcia
I WAS HERE
Before the boards got shut down, I occasionally went on them and checked for All_BS, but I didn’t find him. He could’ve changed his username, or changed to a different group, but somehow I don’t think so. For now, at least, I believe I’ve silenced him.
Joe and Sue met with attorneys who said that I might have gathered enough evidence for a civil suit. They’re discussing it, but Sue says she doesn’t have the stomach for the fight. It won’t bring Meg back, and right now, she says, we need not vengeance but forgiveness. I’ve thought a lot about Jerry’s sermon lately. I think Sue may be right. Though Bradford Smith isn’t the one any of us needs to forgive.
Tricia comes to my door, all dolled up in the new dress that she’ll freeze in and in heels that will get muddy on the trails. She looks pretty. She glances at Alice, she looks at me, she looks at the picture of Meg, the one of her and me as kids at the rodeo that I’ve left up on my wall. “Let’s do this thing,” she says.
x x x
We climb the trails of Pioneer Park into the small clearing in the woods. In the distance, I hear Samson barking. Rounding the corner, I spot Joe and Sue talking to people they’ve met in their suicide survivor group. The Seattle musicians are tuning their instruments. Scottie is playing Hacky Sack with Richard and Harry. Sharon Devonne and some other people Meg knew from school are talking to Mrs. Banks and her husband. Alexis and her fiancé, Ryan, now back from Afghanistan, each hold a hand of their little girl, Felicity. I’m a little surprised to see Tammy Henthoff here, standing alone. She catches my eye and we nod.
Ben is off to the side, looking down the hill. I follow his gaze to the rocket ship, and at the same time, we turn to look at each other. I don’t quite know how so much gets communicated in one look, but it does. Complicated and confused in a wholly fucked-up way is a good way to describe it. But maybe that’s just how love is.
Ready? he mouths.
I nod. I am ready. Soon the musicians will gather and play the Bishop Allen song about fireflies and forgiveness and I will eulogize my friend and we will scatter a bit of her to the wind. And then we will go down the hill, past the rocket ship, to the cemetery, to her grave, where a marker will say:
Megan Luisa Garcia
I WAS HERE
