I finally led the way through the blowing leaves, out into the cold, strange street, and along to the little house with its tiny
garden, the grass uncut these days. But the lights of an illuminated American flag were still right there in the front
window. They were the lights of a patriot, and they still shone defiantly, just as if he were still here. Mikey would have
liked that.
We all stopped for a few moments, and then we climbed the little flight of steps and knocked on the door. She was
pretty, the lady who answered the door, long dark hair, her eyes already brimming with tears. His mother.
She knew I had been the last person to see him alive. And she stared up at me with a look of such profound sadness it
damn near broke me in half and said, quietly, “Thank you for coming.”
I somehow replied, “It’s because of your son that I am standing here.”
As we all walked inside, I looked straight at the hall table and on it was a large framed photograph of a man looking
straight at me, half grinning. There was Mikey, all over again, and I could hear his mom saying, “He didn’t suffer, did he?
Please tell me he didn’t suffer.”
I had to wipe the sleeve of my jacket across my eyes before I answered that. But I did answer. “No, Maureen. He didn’t.
He died instantly.”