The notice came in the form of an email.
“We regret to inform our members of the sudden passing of Glenn… He will be greatly missed.”
Basically, that was it.
No clue in that short missive as to the happy boy inside the 52-year-old man who took his own life.
The friend who constantly staggered on the line between clean and sober-sane and the broken bottle-lined pit.
The racing fan who also drove, crewed and worked the track with great dedication, and who was also very dedicated to the siren scream of substances that sapped the body and stole the mind.
The man who could “man up” enough to show up for work responsibly, yet do the disappearing act without warning or trace.
Looking at your flower-bedecked photo during the memorial service was something of a disconnect. You never struck me as a hearts-and-flowers, sentimental kind of guy, except maybe around your dad, and I know that his death must have stabbed you down to your soul.
Looking at the paraphernalia of your life on display – the jacket, the racing gear, patches – is like looking at a museum diorama. It represents points in time, it evokes recall and remembrance, yet leaves space to wonder: what else could have been here? What else could have been done to change this picture? Did people try to help too much, or not enough?
I know of several of your friends who went above the call and did more than their share to assist you, with housing, food, money and employment. In hindsight, maybe others would have stepped in had they known how bad things were. Or perhaps those who did help would have turned and run had they known how this mission would ultimately end. I don’t think anyone regrets what they did for you.
None of us regret your friendship, your laugh, your kindness and your ability to take a nap just about anywhere. We will always regret the lost chances to understand why the light in you died one day and the darkness finally took over.