July 17, 2016

I have two theories. There’s bound to be some graphic shit in the next paragraphs. Just to warn you.

The first theory is that something happened to his bike, and he lost control and it hit a tree and he had a massive head trauma that killed him before he hit the ground. The flaw in this theory is what a careful and trained motorcycle rider he was (ugh, the past tense!). He would have thrown himself off that motorcycle. He may be mangled, but he would not have hit that tree with his head if there was anyway he was conscious. He knew how to crash. He’d practiced that.

Theory two is a heart attack. He had lost 80 pounds in the two years since we reconnected. I think he was over 250 at his heaviest, and he was only 5’10” (there’s that damn past tense again). He was smoking hot, weighing around 175 when we were together.

I’m not a fat hater. But I see pictures of him heavy, I remet him heavy, and he was barely there. When he first came over, I saw him in his sexy green eyes, but the rest of him wasn’t Rupert, the wiry short kid I smoked weed with and slept with his best friend as a teenager. I would have walked by him on the street like that, not recognized him. It had been 20 years. Depressed from his parents death, Alexius’s death, his beloved Chesapeake Bay retriever Roscoe P. Dawg’s death, and his second divorce. Chain smoking. On cholesterol meds. Bitter.

I think he had a heart attack on that motorcycle.

I think his left side seized up, and he couldn’t grab the brakes. His right side clenched in pain, and he gave the motorcycle too much gas. He lost consciousness, and he hit that tree so hard that he was dead before he hit the ground.

It’s so awful. It’s the end of my world whatever happened. But somehow, it makes me a little more at ease to think it was his time, that heart attack could have killed him in front of our friends, or me, or my kids, or at work. But it happened on his motorcycle, doing what he loved, heading back to my house (I’m listed as his final destination on his death certificate), to be with my friends that were now his friends. The people he’d told that day how excited he was to meet up with me in Greece, how madly in love with me he was, and how he was the happiest he’d ever been in his whole life.

I think he had a heart attack on that bike, and I think he would be gone now anyway.

Either way, he’s still gone, and it doesn’t matter. But I’m alive, and I need to make sense of it.

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