about last night

My profession has an exceptionally high rate of depression. Most people can name a suicide they knew. We weren't close, we travelled in social circles as removed as you can get in a relatively small college. It's unlikely I'll go to the funeral; I do wonder how many of my friends will be back for a too-soon reunion.

It's already whispered among us. How is less relevant than why. The recent break up with his long term girlfriend? That his mom is sick? The job wasn't what he thought? Post grad debt? Something no one could see coming?

The nature of many real professions is training to absorb impact without emotion. Because we deal with the gore of the worst moments of people's lives, dispassionately analyzing and solving, horror becomes de riguer. And I find myself saying, "that's terrible," full stop, but knowing that when I'm finally in the room with people who understand and we're having it on the rocks, we'll say "who's next?" and "could it be me?"

On our first day of school, years ago now, a professor gave a speech about all the things -- good and bad -- that had happened to his graduating class. He knew we would see births and deaths and marriages and divorce, that easy camaraderie would diffuse into a network able to communicate and absorb tragedy.

It sits there unnoticed until the wires light up. It happened three hours away from here, but I heard about it simulatenously from cities much further away and then a local version this morning, the official version from his office.