I had just read the poem I wrote after dad died on November 11, 1998. It was Friday the 13th and the poem was wrenching. He died alone, in Atlanta, in a truckstop. He was 58 years old and the heart attack was massive.

At 3:30 a.m. the phone rang. “Kids! Friday the 13th. It must be a prank.” I thought as I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. But the cell phone rang too, and I knew this was bad news. I had been reminded that November was cruel and Grandma was 90 now.

My 26 year-old nephew was strong and gentle. He played the drums in a band when he wasn’t working on the farm. Harvest was done, so he was playing a gig with his younger brother at a night club. He collapsed as they were taking the equipment down. It was a massive heart attack; an undiagnosed heart condition the coroner said.

My Bill, my godson, was gone in an instant. My sister was devastated. We skipped her birthday on the 16th and planned a funeral instead.

There was lots of music. I read from the Book of Ecclesiastes.