so, i've been trying for a week to put this into some clever context to post on the internet in the spirit of making it actually relevant for other people to read, but i've come to the conclusion that death, especially unexpected death, is always, in it's own context, relevant.

growing up as a large, suburban family, we lived across the street from a family of four; the daughter in between sister christian's and my age, and their son between the el's and my age.

they were kind of like our pseudo-family. they had green shag carpet, a knack for raising german shepherds, a refigerator that was always stocked with dr. pepper, and a pool they built in their back yard.

when i was 12, their daughter passed away from a rare kidney disease (detailed a long time ago here).

not long after, her mom and my mom agreed, for reasons that were never expressed to me, that it was important that i be baptized, making her mom my brand new godmother. i was complacent, so shortly after their agreement i found myself face-first over the baptismal chalice at a local lutheran church in a white dress with a white bow in my hair - the antithesis of my campaign for all things grunge-y, circa 1993.

the following summer, my godmother helped enroll me in summer church camp, about which i'll never complain, as it was where i met one of my oldest friends to date.

after our parents' divorce the following winter (and subsequent familial relocations), visitations with this family was reserved to only super-special occasions like college graduations, and even those weren't all fulfilled, making our relations afflicted by proxemics and distance, in both senses of the word.

having such a big family, we can't expect everyone to show up for everything.

anyway, i got a phone call from the el last monday, giving the news that my godmother committed suicide a week ago sunday - news that's never good to hear.

because i've been dealing with unfamiliar feelings about such news, i asked rich if he would drive past their old house across the street from our old house last weekend, and as a gentle heart he obliged:

their house has new windows, the same old basketball hoop i remember their dad erecting, the same mailbox my godmother made from wood, and the same, slate tile roof that my brothers and their son used to jump from into the pool in their backyard.

it has been for sale for four years.

we'll see the father and son at the services come wednesday - i don't know if i've ever been hit with such a sad case of nostalgia.